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From the Library of 

Dallas C. Dickey 

Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2013 


Evolution of Expression 

Charles Wesley Emerson 

Founder of Emerson College of Oratory 




In Four Volumes, ivith Key to Each Chapter 



Published by 



Copyrighted by C. W. Emerson 

The Barta Press 


Whose need has been my inspiration and whose 

understanding my rich reward, these 

volumes are affectionately 








• •«*•< 




^y , 









Chapter I. 

The Tea-Kettle and the Cricket 
The Pied Piper of Hamelin 
Group of Lyrics : 

Pippa Passes . 

The Snowdrop 

The Throstle 

One Morning, Oh, So Eakly 
Freedom .... 

A Laughing Chorus 
The Cheerful Locksmith . 
Home Thoughts from Abroad 
Lochinvar .... 
The Polish War Song 

Charles Dickens 
Robert Browning 

Robert Browning 

Alfred Tennyson 

Alfred Tennyson 

. Jean Ingelow 

. John Ruski?i 

Charles Dickens 

Robert Browning 

Sir Walter Scott 

James G. Percival 




Chapter II. 

The Village Preacher 

To the Daisy 

Psalm xxiii .... 

Extract from Eulogy on Wen 

dell Phillips 
The Brook 
Old Aunt Mary's . 

Oliver Goldsmith 

William Wordsworth 


George William Curtis 

Alfred Tennyson 

James Whitcomb Riley 






Child Verse : 

My Shadow .... Bobert Louis Stevenson 67 

The Swing .... Bobert Louis Stevenson 68 

The Lamplighter . . . Bobert Louis Stevenson 69 

Waiting . John Burroughs 70 

Chapter III. 

The Revenge Alfred Tennyson 71 

The Ocean Lord Byron 78 

Spartacus to the Gladiators 

at Capua .... Bev. Elijah Kellogg 80 

Tell to His Native Mountains, James Sheridan Knowles 83 

Battle Hymn .... Karl Theodor Korner 85 

Self-Reliance .... Balph Waldo Emerson 88 

Adams and Jefferson . . . Daniel Webster 89 

The Defence of Lucknow . . Alfred Tennyson 91 
Sonnets : 

Keats 98 

Wordsworth 98 

Milton 99 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 99 

Is There for Honest Povertf . . . Bobert Burns 100 

Chapter IV. 

Hamlet to the Players 

William Shakespeare 


The Boy and the Angel . 

Bobert Browning 


Speech and Silence 

Thomas Carlyle 


The Rich Man and the Po 


Man .... 



Gathering of the Fairies . 

Joseph Bodman Drake 


The Song of the Rain 



Hearty Reading . 

. Sidney Smith 



Lord Macaulay 


The Daffodils 

William Wordsworth 



J. U. Friswell 


April in the Hills 

Archibald Lampman 



Teach me, then, 
To fashion worlds in little, making form, 
As God does, one with spirit; — be the priest 
Who makes God into bread to feed the world. 

— Richard Hovey. 

The revised edition of the "Evolution of Expression" is 
issued in response to frequent requests from teachers and stu- 
dents for a formulation of those principles upon which natural 
methods in the teaching of expression are based. It is hoped 
that the brief explanatory text introducing each chapter may 
aid teacher and pupil to avoid arbitrary standards and hap- 
hazard efforts, substituting in their place, psychological law. 
Growth in expression is not a matter of chance ; the teacher 
who understands nature's laws and rests upon them, setting no 
limit to the potentialities of his pupil, waits not in vain for results. 

No printed text, however, can take the place of a discerning 
teacher. A knowledge of the philosophy of education in expres- 
sion avails little without the ability to create the genial atmos- 
phere conducive to the development of the student. The teacher 
is the gardener, his service — his full service — is to surround 
the young plant with favorable conditions of light and soil and 
atmosphere ; then stand out of its way while it unfolds its full 
blossom and final fruitage. 

The tendency of modern education is towards the discovery 
and perfection of methods. The thought of leading educators is 
turned from the what to the how ; to the development of sys- 
tems of progressive steps through which the pupil may be led to 
a realization of himself. This trend -is best shown in the multi- 
plicity and excellence of recent pedagogical treatises and in the 
appearance of carefully graded and progressive text-books. 
The ancients believed that their heroes were born of gods and 



goddesses. They knew of no means by which the mind could 
be developed to the compass of greatness. The ancient theory 
to account for greatness was preternatural birth ; the modern 
theory is evolution. To-day the interest of the child is awa- 
kened, his mind is aroused, and then led onward in regular 

The study of all forms of art, so far as methods are concerned, 
should be progressive. For correct guidance in our search for 
the best methods, we must understand the order of the develop- 
ment of the human mind. A child, before he arrives at an age 
where he can be taught definitely, is simply a little palpitating 
mass of animation. Soon he begins to show an attraction 
toward surrounding objects. Next he begins to show a greater 
attraction for some things than for others. His hands clutch at 
and retain certain objects. He now enters the period of devel- 
opment where he makes selections, and thus is born the power 
of choice. Objects which, at first, appeared to him as a mass 
now begin to stand out clearly one from another ; to become 
more and more differentiated, while the child begins to separate 
and to compare. Thus the brain of the child passes through the 
successive stages from simple animation to attraction, to selec- 
tion or choice, to separation or analysis. This principle of evo- 
lution, operating along the same lines, is found in the race as in 
the individual. In all man's work he has but recorded his own 
life or evolution. All history, all religions, all governments, all 
forms of art bring their testimony to this truth, and in each the 
scholar may find these successive stages of development. 

In the age of Phidias the art of sculpture reached its maturity. 
No race and no people have ever surpassed the consummate 
achievements of that period. But this perfection was the result 
of a process of evolution. There had been graduated steps, and 
those same steps must to-day be taken in the education of the 
artist. Art had passed into its second period before authentic 
Greek history began. The first stage was shewn in that nation 
so justly called the "Mother of Arts and Sciences. " In Egypt 
we find probably the first real manifestations of mind in art 


forms. They are colossal exhibitions of energy, such as the 
Temple of Thebes, seven hundred feet in length, statues seventy 
feet tall, monuments rearing their heads almost five hundred 
feet in air. 

" Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous 
Of which the very ruins are tremendous. " 

To Assyria we turn in our search for the next step in the 
progress of art. Here we find the artists making melodramatic 
efforts to attract the attention and fascinate the mind with 
weird and incongruous shapes of mongrel brutes and hydra- 
headed monsters. 

Finding art at this point, the Greeks, true to their race instinct, 
at once began to evolve from it higher forms. They soon awoke 
to the perception that beauty itself is the true principle of f asci 
nation. Reducing their new theory to practise, the Greek artists 
turned their attention to perfecting the details of the art they 
had borrowed. To works originally repellant from their very 
crudeness, they supplied finish and perfection of the parts. The 
ideal was still before them ; the grotesque monsters might fas- 
cinate the beholder, but, however skilfully executed, however 
perfected in finish, the impression produced was but transitory, 
and failed to satisfy the craving of the souL Beauty was found 
to be the only abiding source of satisfaction. As the conceptions 
of the past no longer satisfied the criterion which their own 
minds had embraced, the Greek artists sought in nature herself 
for models of that beauty, which, when placed in art forms, 
should be a joy forever. The monsters of antiquity disappeared, 
and in their places, came attempts to faithfully copy nature. To 
be sure, some specimens of the art era from which the Greeks 
had just emerged appeared at much later periods of their 
history ; but these creations, as in the case of the Centaur, 
were usually representations of what were believed to be his- 
torical facts, rather than fantastic creations designed by the 
artist to startle the beholder. The Greek still gratified his 
passion for beauty of detail, while he was pursuing his new-born 


purpose of copying nature. It was not long before he found 
that nature, however skilfully copied, could be perfectly mir- 
rored to the eye of the beholder only when presented as she 
appears to the mind of man. This discovery budded and blos- 
somed into the consummate flower of true art, the fourth or 
suggestive era, which reached its acme in the work of Phidias 
and his contemporaries. Every creation was the expression of 
some state of mind. Everything was made as it appeared to 
the eye of the poet, not as it might seem to the man of no senti- 
ment. The impression of the poetic mind found its expression 
in art, and now the statues think, fear, hate, love. 

The same general laws which have governed the rise of sculp- 
ture, underlie the evolution of all forms of art. It is the pur- 
pose of the present writing to hint at, rather than to trace, the 
four stages of development in painting, music, and literature. 
To follow the steps of progress in painting is somewhat more 
difficult than to trace the evolution of sculpture or architecture, 
on account of the perishable nature of the materials. Music 
has unfolded with the unfolding of the human mind, from the 
startling sounds of the savage, — exhibitions of pure energy, — 
through efforts at fascination by the medium of weird and un- 
natural combinations, and through attempts to reproduce natural 
sounds, ever upward till it breathes the very spirit of nature in 
a Haydn or a Beethoven. 

We may follow the growth of the English drama through the 
same process, from its dawning in the fantastic miracle plays 
with their paraphernalia of heaven and hell, of gods, devils, 
angels, and demons, to the creations of "the thousand-souled 
Shakespeare." In religion we see the same phases — from the 
worship of life itself, of natural phenomena, through the pan- 
orama of deities friendly and deities unfriendly, of gods many 
and of devils many, until the human mind grasps the conception 
of Unity in deity, and bows in worship before an Infinite Being 
of Love and Providence. 

In the history of government is written the same tale of evolu- 
tion, from manifestations of brute energy, seeking gratification 


in subjugation for its own sake, — from the government typified 
by the iron heel, — to the government which, seeking the educa- 
tion and protection of ail the people becomes a school rather 
than a system of restraint. 

Therefore the race, in its march from savagery to civilization, 
may be considered as one man, showing, first, animation; next, 
manifesting his objects of attraction; third, displaying his pur- 
poses; and finally putting forth his wisdom in obedience to the 
true, the beautiful, and the good. 

These principles of natural evolution have been applied by the 
writer to the study of oratory. The orator must illustrate in his 
art the same steps of progress which govern the growth of other 
arts. He may have developed the power of the painter, the 
sculptor, the musician, yet if he would unfold the art of the 
rhetorician, he must pass through the progressive gradations that 
have marked the education of his powers in other departments. 
In a single lifetime he may attain the highest art expression, yet 
he cannot escape the necessity of cultivating his powers by the 
same process of evolution which the race needed centuries to 
pass through. It remains for the teacher, therefore, to so 
arrange the methods of study as to enable the pupil to pursue 
the natural order of education. In all things he must stimulate 
and not repress normal growth. 

There is an old notion sometimes found among theoretical 
educators that the mind of a child is like a piece of paper upon 
which anything may be written; a mould of clay upon which any 
impression may be made; a block of stone in which the teacher, 
like the famous sculptor of old, sees, in his poetic vision, an 
angel, and then chips and hacks until that angel stands revealed. 
The theory is absurdly and dangerously fallacious. Paper and 
clay are not living organisms; the orator is not the statue 
chiselled from the rough stone of human nature, or, if the teacher 
succeeds in so far perverting nature as to hack and trim a human 
organism into the semblance of a statue, the product of his work 
will stand forth a living illustration of the difference between the 
genuine and the spurious. The stone has no life. Life must be 


breathed into it, and the sculptor may breathe into it such life as 
he chooses. The gardener, on the other hand, must obey the 
laws of the life of the plant he nurtures. He must so direct the 
forces of nature as to help its inherent tendencies. A certain 
line of growth is written in the structure of every species of 
plant. The plant may be hindered or perverted in its develop- 
ment; it may be killed, but it cannot be made to grow into the 
form of another plant. 

The progress of the human mind can be illustrated only by 
that which is vital, not by anything mechanical. Mind reacts 
upon whatever is given to it according to the divine laws of its 
own organism. The human mind, like the plant, must exhibit 
vitality in abundance before it finds a higher and more complex 
manifestation. The unskilled teacher, instead of inviting out the 
young pupil along the line of his own organism, may, at the out- 
set, paralyze the unfolding mind by ill-advised dictation. There 
can be no true teaching which does not involve growing, and grow- 
ing in the way intended by nature. The teacher must be some- 
thing more than a critic. The critic establishes criteria, protects 
the public, and, in a measure, educates the public taste. When he 
is able to teach others how to reach true criteria he becomes a 
teacher. Until he can do this he has no place in the class room. 

It will be observed that the four volumes of the " Evolution of 
Expression " recognize the four general stages of man's devel- 
opment : Volume I. , representing the period when the individual 
is engrossed with subjects or objects as a Whole, and his passion 
for life is expressed through rude energy, size — the Colossal ; 
Volume II., when he delights in so presenting The Parts to 
which he has been attracted, as to make them Effective in 
attracting the attention of others ; Volume III., when his 
appreciation of the use or Service of the Parts carries hirn 
beyond the melodramatic to the Realistic; and Volume IV., in 
which his dawning perception of that higher service resulting 
from the truthful Relationship of the Parts leads him beyond 
realism to idealism, the Suggestive. 

In choosing the selections for this and the accompanying 


volumes, the aim has been to preserve the natural oneness 
between the study of literature and that of expression, and to 
encourage the appreciation of this unity in the minds of teacher 
and student. It may be said that the greatest of the world's 
literature was written for the ear, not for the eye, and its 
noblest influence is felt only when it is adequately voiced by an 
intelligent and sympathetic reader. It is the object of these 
volumes to foster in the student a keener and deeper apprecia- 
tion of the truth and beauty of great prose and verse, and at the 
same time to enrich his own and other lives by cultivating the 
power of expressing the glories which are opened to his vision 

The arrangement of the selections is for the purpose of teach- 
ing the art of reading according to the steps of natural evolution 
hinted at in the foregoing pages, and in a way which experience 
has found most prolific in practical results. 

While no effort has been made to search for novelties, great 
care has been taken to secure selections which, while of pure 
literary merit, are especially adapted for drill in the several 
steps of progress in reading The power developed in the 
student through carefully directed drill on these selections will 
enable him to illuminate whatever other literature he may care 
to interpret. The arrangement of the s selections in small 
divisions or paragraphs has been made for convenience in the 
work of the class room. 

The " Evolution of Expression " does not offer art criteria by 
which the work of an orator is to be measured ; it presents 
rather a system of education by which one may attain the plane 
of art in expression. The teacher or student who desires a 
formulation of laws which afford a standard of art criticism is 
referred to the four volumes of " The Perfective Laws of Art," 
the text-book succeeding the " Evolution of Expression." 

The author wishes to express his sincere gratitude to George 
N. Morang & Co., to Bobbs-Merrill Company, and to Houghton, 
Mifflin & Co., for their courtesy in allowing him to reprint in 
this volume selections from their publications. 


The body is one and hath many members, and all the members 
of that one body, being many, are one body. — St. Paul. 

How good is man's life, the mere living ! How fit to employ 
All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy ! 

— Browning. 



(NOTE. — Let the teacher and student remember that the headings of the 
chapters name effects rather than causes, signs rather than things signified. 
They are not, therefore, objects of thought for the student while practising ; 
they are finger points for the teacher ; the criteria by which he measures his 
pupil's development.) 

Reading is a communication of thought ; a transference of 
ideas from one mind to other minds so as to influence their 
thinking in a definite manner. The process is distinctively 
communicative, involving two parties, speaker and audience, 
equally indispensable. As well might the student of manual 
training attempt his work without materials, to paint without 
paper or canvas, carve without wood or stone, model without 
clay, as the student of expression to read or speak without an 
audience. For this reason in all his private practice as well as 
class drill, the student should hold in mind an audience to whom 
he directs his attention. The office of the teacher is to hold 
constantly before the pupil these two mental concepts, his 
thought and his audience, or his thought in relation to his 
audience. The pupil must be taught to respond to the author's 
thought as to his own, and at the same time he must be inspired 
with the desire to give that thought to others. In his endeavor 
to awaken other minds his own will be quickened. This mental 
quickening reports itself in animation of voice and manner. 
Herein is illustrated a fundamental law of development ; what 
we earnestly attempt to do for another that we actually do for 
ourselves. The constant endeavor of the teacher, therefore, 
must be to inspire the pupil to serve his audience through 
truth, the truth of his discourse. His attempt to gain the 
attention of his hearers and to concentrate their minds on this 



truth will secure such concentration of his own mind as will 
stimulate his interest, and interest is always vital. 

Let no one mistake loudness for animation. A whisper may 
be more vital, more animated than a shout. The slightest 
quiver of a muscle may reveal greater intensity of thought than 
the most violent gesticulation. Yet since freedom and abandon 
of the agents of expression are necessary to their perfect service, 
let the teacher invite that freedom and abandon without fear of 
sacrificing good taste. He is not to be regarded as an artist 
yet ; nor is it now profitable to measure him by the criteria of 
art. Let the form of his expression be as crude as it may, only 
let it be born of the thought. The student is learning to think 
on his feet ; and the act of mental concentration upon his 
author's thought in relation to his audience is not at first a 
simple task. Do not hurry him in his development. Remember 
that expression to be truthful, must be spontaneous. The 
teacher needs only to hold the right objects of thought before 
the pupil's mind, then stand aside and let him grow in nature's 
own way. No thought of the how should be allowed to enter the 
student's mind while he is speaking, it is only the what that 
concerns him. Form is born of spirit ; the letter killeth, but the 
spirit giveth life. 

The requirement of the present chapter is met when the 
student is able to fix the attention of those who listen upon 
the central idea or theme of the selection. ■ The Whole or unit 
of thought should be held before the pupil's mind, and by him, 
before the mind of the audience, attention not yet being directed 
specifically to Parts. 


The basis of intelligent vocal interpretation of literature is 
careful analysis. One cannot express shades of meaning that 
are not in the mind; until one clearly perceives the motives and 
relationships of the selection, he cannot reflect them to others. 
Too much cannot be said upon the importance of thorough 


thought and study of a selection previous to any effort toward 
expression. It is needless to explain that one cannot give what 
he does not possess; and it is equally self-evident that one gains 
by giving. Long and thoughtful quiescent concentration should 
precede the concentration of mind while speaking. The author's 
words are like a gold mine which must be searched by thorough 
digging for the nuggets of thought beneath. The pupil must 
live with his author, see through his eyes, think with his intel- 
lect, feel with his heart, and choose with his will, picturing to 
himself every scene, putting himself in the place of every char- 
acter described. 

Like every organism every true work of art has organic unity; 
it represents a unit of thought, the Whole, made up of essential 
Parts. Each part is a part of the whole, because in its own way 
it reflects the whole. The perfect unity of an organism or of a 
work of art results from the service rendered by each part to 
every other part. 

Here, then, is the logical order of analysis : first, the Whole or 
unit of thought; second, the Parts; third, the Service, or the use 
Mf the Parts ; fourth, the Relationship of the Parts which is the 
highest service and results in revelation. In determining this 
higher service we are reconstructing our whole from the unit of 
the selection to the revelation of truth resulting from the rela- 
tionship of parts; the analysis must culminate in synthesis, else 
it would defeat its purpose. The end of literature, as in other 
forms of art, is revelation. The end of analysis is to lead to the 
perception of this revelation. In the earlier stages of develop- 
ment the pupil's attention should not be directed toward minute 
analysis. At this period his mind is engrossed with the princi- 
pal thought or unit of the composition, — the dominant theme 
which is developed in every organic literary composition. Let 
his mind rest upon this until he lives in the spirit of the theme 
through a passion for reflecting it to others. 

Inasmuch as an attempt to define always limits, it is a question 
how far it will be profitable to formulate definite statements of 
the whole, parts, etc. Written expression, as well as oral, is 


individual. Each pupil may have a different formulation. Inas- 
much, however, as every author is possessed by a definite pur- 
pose, we may suggest, for the guidance of the student, a tentative 
analysis of a selection which may aid him in reflecting its truth 
to an audience. 

It is hoped that this brief study of one selection from each 
chapter may be acceptable as a working basis, a hint of the 
logical method of procedure rather than an arbitrary model. 
The elaboration of these principles is without limit and must be 
left to the teacher. It is the purpose here to give only simple 
statements intended to be suggestive rather than final. 

Example : ' ' The Cheerful Locksmith. ' ' (Page 46. ) 

The Unit, or Whole for working basis: The character of the 
Cheerful Locksmith. 

The Parts : 

(a) The sound he makes. Paragraphs 1, 2, 3, 7. 

(b) His personal appearance. Paragraph 4. 

(c) The appearance of objects around him. Paragraphs 5, 6. 
The Service of the Parts : 

(a) Serves the Whole by engaging the interest at once in the 
Cheerful Locksmith, whom it introduces, and whose nature it 

(6) Serves by presenting a definite picture of him, radiating 

(c) Serves by revealing further his cheerful personality 
through its effect upon surrounding objects. 

The Relationship of the Parts : 

(a) Foreshadows (6) and (c). 

(b) Fulfils the expectation awakened in (a) and helps to pre- 
pare the mind for (c) . 

(c) Is a natural outgrowth from (a) and (6). 
Synthesis : 

The revelation of truth through these relationships gives us a 
"New Whole " which may be stated thus: The spirit of cheer- 
fulness, radiating from the Locksmith's personality and ex- 
pressed through his work, is reflected by all around him. 


The above analysis is suggested as a guide for study. A ten- 
tative analysis of each selection might be offered here; but it is 
better that the student develop his own powers of discrimination 
by doing this preliminary work himself, directed, as far as neces- 
sary, by the teacher. However, it is not essential that a formal 
analysis of every selection be made; indeed, as has been already 
implied, minute analysis may even defeat the end of these open- 
ing chapters. The question of formal analysis may be left to the 
discretion of the teacher, who must determine how far it serves 
his purpose in each individual instance. 

The criterion of Chapter I. does not demand an interpretation 
based upon the complete analysis given above, which is intended 
as an illustration of all analysis; if all the relationships suggested 
above be reflected through an oral reading of "The Cheerful 
Locksmith," the reader has attained the steps of development 
embodied in Volume IV. However, in drill on the selections in 
Volume I., the teacher should never think of limiting the pupil 
to the significance of that volume; every student should be en- 
couraged to reflect as much of the truth, literal and suggestive, 
as his degree of discernment and of freedom will allow. 

The immediate aim of drill on "The Cheerful Locksmith" 
should be a hearty response to the spirit of the Whole, however 
much beyond that may be achieved. The student must be in- 
spired by an ardent desire to awaken the interest of his audience 
in "The Cheerful Locksmith," as does one who through intro- 
ductory remarks presents the "speaker of the evening." 

It is to be thoughtfully noted that all the selections in this and 
the three succeeding chapters have been chosen for their easy 
adaptability to use in the first natural period of art-expression, 
the Colossal period. They are selections with an easily distin- 
guishable theme. Throughout these chapters the mind 'of the 
student should be engaged with the motif of the selection as it 
first catches the mind. Nothing in later study can make up for 
the loss of the first glow, the undefined answering response to 
the animating spirit of a writer's message. His differentiated 
meanings, his elaborations of theme for the purpose of increased 


force, intensity or suggestion are but useless lumber to a mind 
that has not throbbed in sympathy, scarce knowing why. It is 
just here that almost all teaching in both literature and its ex- 
pression fails ; there is not enough browsing — knee-deep, waist- 
deep, — for the pure joy of it. 



At first, the student may find it difficult to concentrate the 
minds of his hearers upon his theme steadily and continuously. 
His ability to do this may come spasmodically. This irregular 
mental activity reports itself in unevenness of delivery ; life ap- 
pears in gleams not in steady shining. But with continued 
effort to concentrate other minds upon his subject, this uneven- 
ness gives place to ease in delivery, to smoothness of voice. Con- 
tinuity of thought impels smoothness of expression. When a 
thought is held steadily in the mind of the pupil, together with a 
dominating purpose to communicate that thought to others, the 
tones of his voice become evenly sustained and smooth. 

Smoothness may be said to result from a sense of oneness with 
the audience. So long as there is a gulf between the speaker 
and audience, there is conscious and apparent effort in the ad- 
dress. It is a growing love, a vital sympathy with the audience 
that manifests itself in smoothness. 

This second step grows in natural sequence out of the first. 
Out of * the abundance of life comes sweetness. In all the suc- 
cessive steps of the pupil's evolution, he is constantly to add, 
never to discard or lay aside any power previously gained. 
Rather than outgrow it, he will grow in it. All that he will 
outgrow will be his faults, his mannerisms, his limitations. As 
he gains freedom, transcending limitations, his mannerisms will 


fall away from him ; he need never be made conscious that he 
has had them. 

Analysis. Example, " The Village Preacher/' (Page 53.) 
The Unit, or Working Whole : A village preacher who radi- 
ates the spirit of love. 

The student's endeavor must be to reflect continuously the 
overflowing love of the preacher's nature, which blessed all with 
whom he came in contact. The audience should feel the pres- 
ence of the great-hearted man throughout the reading of the 
entire selection, even when he is not described. For instance, 
he may be foreshadowed in the introduction. 



Out of the effort toward continued concentration is born the 
perception of values. Dwelling upon the thought and striving 
to hold it steadily in the minds of those who listen, the pupil be- 
gins to perceive its greater value, and to realize that the 
expression of this value will aid him in holding the attention of 
his audience. His will becomes more definitely aroused. Feel- 
ing his new power, he should be inspired to direct it definitely 
toward his hearers. This new element of will directed through 
the perception of value expresses itself in the added quality 
called volume of voice. 

Here, as everywhere, the discernment of the teacher must be 
relied upon to detect the difference between true and mechani- 
cal expression. Failure on the part of the pupil to perceive 
what is desired may lead him to offer, as a counterfeit of volume, 
force or loudness. Volume of voice, free from both, is the ex- 
pression of the growing appreciation of values. 


Analysis. Example : "Spartacus to the Gladiators/ ' (Page 

The Unit, or Whole: The personality of Spartacus revealed 
through his effort to inspire his fellows with the spirit of liberty. 

The theme which Spartacus presents is of universal value — 
the spirit of liberty, dear to all mankind. This value must be 
realized by the student, who must make the effort of Spartacus 
his own effort, throughout the entire selection. The value of 
the theme must be Behind every spoken word, felt, if not 



The life manifested in the three previous chapters'now begins 
to take more definite thought form. The intellect seeing more 
clearly, appeals to the intellects of those who listen that they 
may think with greater sharpness and distinctness the thoughts 
presented. By aiming to present these thoughts so as to be 
clearly understood, distinctness and precision of utterance are 
gained. The elements of speech become more perfectly and 
beautifully chiseled. Thus keener thinking and greater care in 
presentation serve in forming the elements and perfecting the 
articulation, which need not be made a matter of mechanical 

Careless enunciation, which so mars the beauty of a speaker's 
discourse, is usually due to careless thinking. Clear speaking 
comes from clear thinking. Exceptional cases of long confirmed 
bad habits, faultily trained ears, or defects in the vocal appara- 
tus, sometimes make technical drill to meet individual cases, a 
necessary supplement to the persistent practice in earnest reve- 
lation of thought. But in ordinary cases the speaker's endeavor 


to impress his hearers with the parts which make up his dis- 
course will result, in due time, in accurate, distinct articulation. 
With continued practice this perfection of speech will become 
habitual. Spirit moulds form ; this law cannot be overempha- 
sized. In this new stage of the pupil's development, as always, 
the desired result proceeds as an effect from an inner psycholog- 
ical cause ; it is a natural and spontaneous outgrowth, rather 
than a dull and lifeless form. 

Analysis. Example : " The Song of the Rain." (Page 114.) 
Unit, or Whole: The beneficence of rain after a drought. 
Here the student should hold the attention of the audience upon 
the distinct features of the picture presented. He should make 
his hearers see and enjoy the rain and appreciate the response of 
nature and of people to its refreshing influence. 





1. It appeared as if there were a sort of match, or 
trial of skill, you must understand, between the kettle 
and the cricket. And this is what led to it, and how 
it came about. 

2. The kettle was aggravating and obstinate. It 
wouldn't allow itself to be adjusted on the top bar ; it 
wouldn't hear of accommodating itself kindly to the 
knobs of coal ; it would lean forward with a drunken 
air, and dribble — a very idiot of a kettle — on the 
hearth. It was quarrelsome, and hissed and sputtered 
morosely at the fire. 

3. To sum up all, the lid, resisting Mrs. Peery- 
bingle's fingers, first of all turned topsy-turvy, and 
then, with an ingenious pertinacity deserving of a better 
cause, dived sideways in, down to the very bottom of 
the kettle ; and the hull of the Royal George has never 


mads half of the monstrous resistance in coming out of 
the water which the lid of the kettle employed against 
Mrs. Peerybingle before she got it up again. 

4. It looked sullen and pig-headed enough, even 
then, carrying its handle with an air of defiance, and 
cocking its spout pertly and mockingly at Mrs. Peery- 
bingle, as if it said, "1 won't boil. Nothing shall 
induce me ! " 

5. But Mrs. Peerybingle, with restored good-humor, 
dusted her chubby little hands against each other, and 
sat down before the kettle laughing. Meantime the 
jolly blaze uprose and fell, flashing and gleaming on the 
little haymaker at the top of the Dutch clock, until 
one might have thought he stood stock still before the 
Moorish palace, and nothing was in motion but the 

6. Now it was, observe, that the kettle began to 
spend the evening. Now it was that the kettle, grow- 
ing mellow and musical, began to have irrepressible 
gurglings in the throat, and to indulge in short vocal 
snorts, which it checked in the bud, as if it hadn't quite 
made up its mind yet to be good company. Now it 
was that, after two or three such vain attempts to stifle 
its convivial sentiments, it threw off all moroseness, all 
reserve, and burst into a stream of song so cozy and 
hilarious as never maudlin nightingale yet formed the 
least idea of. 

7. So plain, too ! Bless you, you might have under- 


stood it like a book; better than some books you and I 
could name, perhaps. With its warm breath gushing 
forth in a light cloud, which merrily and gracefully 
ascended a few feet, then hung about the chimney 
corner, as its own domestic heaven, it trolled its song 
with that strong energy of cheerfulness that its iron 
body hummed and stirred upon the fire; and the lid 
itself, the recently rebellious lid— - such is the influence 
of a bright example — performed a sort of jig, and 
clattered like a deaf and dumb young cymbal that had 
never known the use of its twin brother. 

8. That this song of the kettle's was a song of invita- 
tion and welcome to somebody out of doors, to some- 
body at that moment coming on towards the snug, small 
home and the crisp fire, there is no doubt whatever. 
Mrs. Peerybingle knew it perfectly, as she sat musing 
before the hearth. 

9. "It's a dark night," sang the kettle, "and the rotten 
leaves are lying by the way, and above ail is mist and 
darkness, and below all is mire and clay , and there's 
only one relief in all the sad and murky air; and I 
don't know that it is one, for its nothing but a glare of 
deep and angry crimson, where the sun and wind to- 
gether set a brand upon the clouds, for being guilty of 
such weather ; and the widest open country is a long, 
dull streak of black; and there's hoar-frost on the 
finger-post, and thaw upon the track ; and the ice isn't 
water, and the water isn't free ; and you couldn't say 


that anything is what it ought to be ; but he's coming, 
coming, coming ! — " 

10. And here, if you like, the cricket did chime in 
with chirrup, chirrup, chirrup of such magnitude, by 
way of chorus, with a voice so astoundingly dispropor- 
tionate to its size, as compared with the kettle (size, 
you couldn't see it ! ) — that if it had then and there 
burst itself, like an overcharged gun, if it had fallen 
a victim on the spot, and chirruped its little body 
into fifty pieces, it would have seemed a natural and 
inevitable consequence, for which it had expressly 

11. The kettle had had the last of its solo per- 
formances. It persevered with undiminished ardor; 
but the cricket took first fiddle, and kept it. Good 
heaven, how it chirped ! Its shrill, sharp, piercing 
voice resounded through the house, and seemed to 
twinkle in the outer darkness like a star. 

12. There was an indescribable little thrill and trem- 
ble in it, at its loudest, which suggested its being carried 
off its legs, and made to leap again, by its own intense 
enthusiasm. Yet they went very well together, the 
cricket and the kettle. The burden of the song was 
still the same ; and louder, louder, louder still they 
sang it in their emulation. 

13. There was all the excitement of a race about it. 
Chirp, chirp, chirp ! cricket a mile ahead. Hum, hum, 
hum-m-m ! kettle making play in the distance, like a 


great top. Chirp, chirp, chirp ! cricket round the 
corner. Hum, hum, hum-m-m ! kettle sticking to him 
in his own way; no idea of giving in. Chirp, chirp, 
chirp, cricket fresher than ever. Hum, hum, hum-m-m ! 
kettle slow and steady. Chirp, chirp, chirp ! cricket 
going in to finish him. Hum, hum, hum-m-m I kettle 
not to be finished. 

14. Until at last they got so jumbled together, in the 
hurry-scurry, helter-skelter of the match, that whether 
the kettle chirped and the cricket hummed, or the 
cricket chirped and the kettle hummed, or they both 
chirped and both hummed, it would have taken a 
clearer head than yours or mine to have decided with 

15. Of this there is no doubt ; that the kettle and the 
cricket, at one and the same moment, and by some 
power of amalgamation best known to themselves, sent 
each his fireside song of comfort streaming into a ray of 
the candle that shone out through the window, and a 
long way down the lane. And this light, bursting on a 
certain person, who, on the instant, approached towards 
it through the gloom, expressed the whole thing to him 
literally in a twinkling, and cried, " Welcome home, 
old fellow ! welcome home, my boy ! " 

This end attained, the kettle, being dead beat, 
boiled over, and was taken off the fire. 

Charles Dickens. 



Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, 

By famous Hanover city ; 
The river Weser, deep and wide, 
Washes its wall on the southern side ; 
A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 

But, when begins my ditty, 
Almost five hundred years ago, 
To see the townsfolk suffer so 

From vermin was a pity. 


They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, 

And bit the babies in the cradles, 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 

And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
And even spoiled the women's chats, 

By drowning their speaking 

With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty different sharps and flats. 


At last the people in a body 

To the Town Hall came flocking ; 
"'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; 

And as for our Corporation, — shocking 


To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
For dolts that can't or won't determine 
What's best to rid us of our vermin ! 
You hope, because you're old and obese, 
To find in the furry, civic robe ease ? 
Rouse up, sirs ! Give your brains a racking, 
To find the remedy we're lacking, 
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing ! " 


At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 
An hour they sat in council. 

At length the Mayor broke silence : 
" For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ; 

I wish I were a mile hence. 
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain, 
I'm sure my poor head aches again, 
I scratched it so, and all in vain. 
Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap ! " 
Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber door but a gentle tap. 
" Bless us ! " cried the Mayor, "what's that? 
Anything like the sound of a rat 
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat." 


" Come in," the Mayor cried, looking bigger ; 
And in did come the strangest figure ; 
His queer long coat from heels to head 
Was half of yellow and half of red. 
And he himself was tall and thin, 


With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 
And light, loose hair, yet swarthy skin — 
No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin, 
But lips where smiles went out and in, 
There was no guessing his kith or kin ; 
And nobody could enough admire 
The tall man and his quaint attire. 


Quoth one, " It's as my great-grand-sire, 

Starting up at the trump of Doom's tone, 

Had walked this way from his painted tomb-stone.'* 

He advanced to the council- table s 

And P "Please your honors," said he, " I'm able, 

By means of a secret charm, to draw 

All creatures living beneath the sun, 

That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, 

After me so as you never saw. 


And I chiefly use my charm 

On creatures that do people harm, — 

The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper, — 

And people call me the Pied Piper ; 

Yet," said he, "poor Piper as I am, 

In Tartary I freed the Cham 

Last June from his huge swarm of gnats \ 

I eased in Asia the Nizam 

Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats ; 

And, as for what your brain bewilders, 

If I can rid your town of rats, 


Will you give me a thousand guilders ? " 

" One? fifty thousand ! " was the exclamation 

Of the astonished Mayor and corporation. 


Into the street the piper stept, 

Smiling first a little smile, 

As if he knew what magic slept 

In his quiet pipe the while ; 
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, 
You heard as if an army muttered ; 
And the muttering grew to a grumblings 
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling, 
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling, - 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, 
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, 
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
Families by tens and dozens, 
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, — 
Followed the piper for their lives. 
From street to street he piped advancing, 
And step for step they followed dancing, 
Until they came to the river Weser, 
Wherein all plunged and perished. 


You should have heard the Hamelin people 
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. 
"Go," cried the Mayor, "get long poles, 
Poke out the nests, and block up the holes. 


Consult with carpenters and builders, 

And leave in our town not even a trace 

Of the rats." When suddenly up the face 

Of the Piper perked in the market place, 

With, " First, if you please, my thousand guilders." 

A thousand guilders ; the Mayor looked blue 

And so did the Corporation, too. 


" Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, 

" Our business was done at the river brink ; 

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 

And what's dead can't come to life, I think. 

A thousand guilders ? Come, take fifty." 

The Piper's face fell, and he cried, 

" No trifling. Folks who put me in a passion 

May find me pipe to another fashion." 


Once more he stepped into the street 

And to his lips again 

Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane ; 

And ere he blew three notes 

There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling, 

Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, 

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, 

Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, 

And, like fowls in a barnyard when barley is scattering, 

Out came the children running. 

All the little boys and girls, 

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 


And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 

Tripping and skipping ran merrily after 

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. 


When, lo ! as they reached the mountain's side, 

A wondrous portal opened wide, 

As if a cavern were suddenly hollowed ; 

And the piper advanced and the children followed, 

And when all were in to the very last 

The door in the mountain side shut fast. 

Alas, alas for Hamelin ! 


There came into many a burgher's pate 

A text which says that heaven's gate 
Opens to the rich at as easy rate 

As the needle's eye takes the camel in ! 
The mayor sent east, west, north, and south 
To offer the Piper by word of mouth, 
Wherever it was men's lot to find him, 
Silver and gold to his heart's content, 
If he'd only return the way he went, 
And bring the children behind him. 
But soon they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, 
And piper and dancers were gone forever. 


And the better in memory to fix 

The place of the children's last retreat, 

They called it the Pied Piper's Street — 


Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 
And opposite the place of the cavern 
They wrote the story on a column, 
And on the great church window painted 
The same, to make the world acquainted 
How their children wore stolen away ; 
And there it stands to this very day. 

Robert Browning. 


Pippa Passes. 

The year's at the spring, 
And day's at the morn ; 
Morning's at seven ; 
The hill-side's dew-pearled ; 
The lark's on the wing ; 
The snail's on the thorn ; 
God's in his heaven — 
All's right with the world. 

Robert Browning. 

The Snowdrop. 

Many, many welcomes 
February fair-maid, 
Ever as of old time. 

[Chap. I.] GROUP OF LYRICS. 87 

Solitary firstling, 
Coming in the cold time, 
Prophet of the gay time, 
Prophet of the May time, 
Prophet of the roses, 
Many, many welcomes 
February fair-maid ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 

The Throstle. 

cc Summer is coming, summer is coming. 

I know it, I know it, I know it. 
Light again, leaf again, life again, love again," 

Yes, my wild little Poet. 


Sing the new year in under the blue. 

Last year you sang it as gladly. 
" New, new, new, new ! " Is it then so new 

That you should carol so madly ? 


" Love again, song again, nest again, young again," 

Never a prophet so crazy ! 
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, 

See, there is hardly a daisy. 



" Here again, here, here, here, happy year I " 
O warble unchidden, unbidden ! 

Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, 
And all the winters are hidden. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

One Morning, Oh ! So Early ! 

One morning, oh ! so early, my beloved, my beloved, 
All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they 

would cease ; 
'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, " Hear the story, 
hear the story ! " 

And the lark sang, " Give us glory ! " 
And the dove said, " Give us peace ! " 


Then I listened, oh ! so early, my beloved, my beloved, 
To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my 

dear, the dove ; 
When the nightingale came after, " Give us fame to 
sweeten duty ! " 

When the wren sang, " Give us beauty ! " 
She made answer, " Give us love ! " 

[Chap. L] FREEDOM. 39 


Sweet is spring, and sweet the morning, my belovM, 

my beloved ; 
Now for us doth spring, doth morning, wait upon the 

year's increase, 
And my prayer goes up, " Oh, give us, crowned in 
youth with marriage glory, 

Give for all our life's dear story, 
Give us love, and give us peace ! " 

Jean Tngelow. 


le No quality of Art has been more powerful in its 
influence on public mind ; none is more frequently the 
subject of popular praise, or the end of vulgar effort, 
than what we call " Freedom." It is necessary to de- 
termine the justice or injustice of this popular praise. 

2. Try to draw a circle with the " free " hand, and 
with a single line. You cannot do it if your hand 
trembles, nor if it hesitates, nor if it is unmanageable, 
nor if it is in the common sense of the word " free." 
So far from being free, it must be under a control as 
absolute and accurate as if it were fastened to an in- 
flexible bar of steel. And yet it must move, under 
this necessary control, with perfect, untormented seren- 
ity of ease 

3. I believe we can nowhere find a better type of a 


perfectly free creature than in the common house-fly. 
Nor free only, but brave ; and irreverent to a degree 
which I think no human republican could by any phi- 
losophy exalt himself to. There is no courtesy in him ; 
he does not care whether it is king or clown whom he 
teases ; and in every step of his swift mechanical march, 
and in every pause of his resolute observation, there is 
one and the same expression of perfect egotism, perfect 
independence and self-confidence, and conviction of the 
world's having been made for flies. 

4. Strike at him with your hand, and to him, the 
mechanical fact and external aspect of the matter is, 
what to you it would be if an acre of red clay, ten feet 
thick, tore itself up from the ground in one massive 
field, hovered over you in the air for a second, and 
came crashing down with an aim. That is the exter- 
nal aspect of it ; the inner aspect, to his fly's mind, is 
of a quite natural and unimportant occurrence — one 
of the momentary conditions of his active life. He 
steps out of the way of your hand, and alights on the 
back of it. 

5. You cannot terrify him, nor govern him, nor per- 
suade him, nor convince him. He has his own positive 
opinion on all matters ; not an unwise one, usually, for 
his own ends ; and will ask no advice of yours. He 
has no work to do — no tyrannical instinct to obey. 
The earthworm has his digging ; the bee her gathering 
and building ; the spider her cunning network ; the ant 

[Chap, I.] FREEDOM. 41 

her treasury and accounts. All these are comparatively 
slaves, or people of vulgar business. 

6. But your fly, free in the air, free in the chamber — 
a black incarnation of caprice, wandering, investigating, 
flitting, flirting, feasting at his will, with rich variety 
of choice in feast, from the heaped sweets in the 
grocers window to those of the butcher's back yard, 
and from the galled place on your cab-horse's back, to 
the brown spot in the road, from which, as the hoof dis- 
turbs him, he rises with angry republican buzz — what 
freedom is like his ? 

7. Indeed, the first point we have all to determine 
is not how free we are, but what kind of creatures we 
are. It is of small importance to any of us whether 
we get liberty ; but of the greatest that we deserve it. 
Whether we can win it, fate must determine ; but that 
we will be worthy of it we may ourselves determine ; 
and the sorrowfulest fate of all that we can suffer is 
to have it without deserving it. 

8. I have hardly patience to hold my pen and go on 
writing, as I remember the infinite follies of modern 
thought in this matter, centered in the notion that 
liberty is good for a man, irrespectively of the use he is 
likely to make of it. Folly unfathomable ! unspeak- 
able ! You will send your child, will you, into a room 
where the table is loaded with sweet wine and fruit — 
some poisoned, some not? — you will say to him, 
i4 Choose freely, my little child ! It is so good for you 


to have freedom of choice ; it forms your character — 
your individuality ! If you take the wrong cup or the 
wrong berry, you will die before the day is over, but 
you will have acquired the dignity of a Free child." 

9. You think that puts the case too sharply? I tell 
you, lover of liberty, there is no choice offered to you, 
but it is similarly between life and death. There is no 
act, nor option of act, possible, but the wrong deed or 
option has poison in it which will stay in your veins 
thereafter forever. Never more to ail eternity can you 
be as you might have been had you not done that — 
chosen that. 

10. You have "formed your character," forsooth! 
No ; if you have chosen ill, you have De-formed it, and 
that forever! In some choices it had been better for 
you that a red-hot iron bar struck you aside, scarred 
and helpless, than that you had so chosen. " You will 
know better next time ! " No. Next time will never 
come. Next time the choice will be in quite another 
aspect — between quite different things, — you, weaker 
than you were by the evil into which you have fallen ; 
it, more doubtful than it was, by the increased dimness 
of your sight, No one ever gets wiser by doing wrong, 
nor stronger. You will get wiser and stronger only by 
doing right, whether forced or not ; the prime, the one 
need is to do that, under whatever compulsion, until you 
can do it without compulsion. And then you are a Man. 

11. "What!" a wayward youth might perhaps 

[Chap. I.] FREEDOM. 43 

answer, incredulously, " no one ever gets wiser by doing 
wrong ? Shall I not know the world best by trying the 
wrong of it, and repenting ? Have I not, even as it is, 
learned much by many of my errors?" Indeed, the 
effort by which partially you recovered yourself was 
precious ; that part of your thought by which you dis- 
cerned the error was precious. What wisdom and 
strength you kept, and rightly used, are rewarded ; and 
in the pain and the repentance, and in the acquaintance 
with the aspects of folly and sin, you have learned some- 
thing ; how much less than you would have learned in 
right paths can never be told, but that it is less is certain. 

12. Your liberty of choice has simply destroyed for 
you so much life and strength, never regainable. It is 
true, you now know the habits of swine, and the taste 
of husks; do you think your father could not have 
taught you to know better habits and pleasanter tastes, 
if you had stayed in his house ; and that the knowledge 
you have lost would not have been more, as well as 
sweeter, than that you have gained? But "it so forms 
my individuality to be free ! " Your individuality was 
given you by God, and in your race, and if you have 
any to speak of, you will want no liberty. . . . 

13. In fine, the arguments for liberty may in general 
be summed in a few very simple forms, as follows : 

Misguiding is mischievous : therefore guiding is. 
If the blind lead the blind, both fall into the ditch : 
therefore, nobody should lead anybody. 


Lambs and fawns should be left free in the fields ; 
much more bears and wolves. 

If a man's gun and shot are his own, he may fire in 
any direction he pleases. 

A fence across a road is inconvenient ; much more 
one at the side of it. 

Babes should not be swaddled with their hands bound 
down to their sides : therefore they should be thrown 
out to roll in the kennels naked, 

14. None of these arguments are good, and the prac- 
tical issues of them are worse. For there are certain 
eternal laws for human conduct which are quite clearly 
discernible by human reason. So far as these are dis- 
covered and obeyed, by whatever machinery or author- 
ity the obedience is procured, there follow life and 
strength. So far as they are disobeyed, by whatever 
good intention the disobedience is brought about, there 
follow ruin and sorrow. 

15. The first duty of every man in the world is to 
find his true master, and, for his own good, submit to 
him ; and to find his true inferior, and, for that inferior's 
good, conquer him. The punishment is sure, if we 
either refuse the reverence, or are too cowardly and in- 
dolent to enforce the compulsion. A base nation cru- 
cifies or poisons its wise men, and lets its fools rave and 
rot in its streets. A wise nation obeys the one, restrains 
the other, and cherishes all. 

John Ruskin. 



Oh, such a commotion under the ground 

When March called " Ho, there ! ho ! " 
Such spreading of rootlets far and wide, 

Such whispering to and fro. 
And " Are you ready ? " the Snowdrop asked ; 

" 'Tis time to start, you know." 
" Almost, my dear," the Scilla replied ; 

"I'll follow as soon as you go." 
Then, " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " a chorus came 

Of laughter soft and low 
From the millions of flowers under the ground 

Yes — millions — beginning to grow. 


" I'll promise my blossoms," the Crocus said, 

" When I hear the bluebirds sing." 
And straight thereafter Narcissus cried, 

" My silver and gold I'll bring." 
" And ere they are dulled," another spoke, 

" The Hyacinth bells shall ring." 
And the Violet only murmured, " I'm here," 

And sweet grew the air of spring. 
Then, " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " a chorus came 

Of laughter soft and low 
From the millions of flowers under the ground 

Yes — millions — beginning to grow. 



Oh, the pretty, brave things ! through the coldest days, 

Imprisoned in walls of brown, 
They never lost heart, though the blast shrieked loud, 

And the sleet and the hail came down, 
But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress, 

Or fashioned her beautiful crown ; 
And now they are coming to brighten the world, 

Still shadowed by winter's frown ; 
And well may they cheerily laugh, " Ha ! ha ! " 

In a chorus soft and low, 
The millions of flowers hid under the ground — 

Yes — millions — beginning to grow. 



1. From the workshop of the Golden Key there 
issued forth a tinkling sound, so merry and good- 
humored that it suggested the idea of some one working 
blithely, and made quite pleasant music. Tink, tink, 
tink — clear as a silver bell, and audible at every pause 
of the streets' harsher noises, as though it said, " I 
don't care ; nothing puts me out ; I am resolved to be 

2. Women scolded, children squalled, heavy carts 
went rumbling by, horrible cries proceeded from the 
lungs of hawkers ; still it struck in again, no higher, 



V ' no lower, no louder, no softer ; not thrusting itself on 
jA people's notice a bit the more for having been outdone 
' j/* by louder sounds — tink, tink, tink, tink, tink. 

3. It was a perfect embodiment of the still, small 
voice, free from all cold, hoarseness, huskiness, or un- 
healthiness of any kind. Foot-passengers slackened 
their pace, and were disposed to linger near it ; neigh- 
bors who had got up splenetic that morning, felt good- 
humor stealing on them as they heard it, and by degrees 
became quite sprightly ; mothers danced their babies to 
its ringing; — still the same magical tink, tink, tink 
came gaily from the workshop of the Golden Key. 

4. Who but the locksmith could have made such 
music ? A gleam of sun, shining through the unsashed 
window and checkering the dark workshop with a broad 
patch of light, fell full upon him, as though attracted 
by his sunny heart. There he stood working at his 
anvil, his face radiant with exercise and gladness, his 
sleeves turned up, his wig pushed off his shining fore- 
head — the easiest, freest, happiest man in all the 

5. Beside him sat a sleek cat, purring and winking 
in the light, and falling every now and then into an 
idle doze, as from excess of comfort. The very locks 
that hung around had something jovial in their rust, 
and seemed like gouty gentlemen of hearty natures, 
disposed to joke on their infirmities. 

6. There was nothing surly or severe in the whole 


scene. It seemed impossible that any of the innumer- 
able keys could fit a churlish strong-box or a prison 
door. Storehouses of good things, rooms where there 
were fires, books, gossip, and cheering laughter — these 
were their proper sphere of action. Places of distrust, 
and cruelty, and restraint they would have quadruple- 
locked forever. 

7. Tink, tink, tink. No man who hammered on at 
a dull, monotonous duty could have brought such cheer- 
ful notes from steel and iron ; none but a chirping, 
healthy, honest-hearted fellow, who made the best of 
everything and felt kindly towards everybody, could 
have done it for an instant. He might have been a 
coppersmith, and still been musical. If he had sat in 
a jolting wagon, full of rods of iron, it seemed as if he 
would have brought some harmony out of it. 

Charles Dickens. 


Oh, to be in England now that April's there, 

And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, 

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf 
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 
In England — now ! 

LChap. I.] LOCHINVAR. 49 

And after April, when May follows 

And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows ! 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 

Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — ■ 

That's the wise thrush : he sings each song twice over 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture ! 

And though the fields look rough with hoaiy dew, 

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 

The buttercups, the little children's dower 

— Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 

Robert Browning. 



Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West, — 
Through all the wide border his steed was the best ! 
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none, — 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 


He sta}^ed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone : 

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none. 

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; 

For a laggard in love and a dastard in war 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 




So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 

'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 

" Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" 


" I long wooed your daughter — my suit you denied ; 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide ; 
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 


The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up ; 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar ; ^ 'i 

" Now tread we a measure^'f said young Lochinvar. 



So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 
That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 
While her mother did fret and her father did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and 

And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better by far 
To have matched our fair cousin vvith young Lochinvar." 

[Chap. L] POLISH WAR SONG. 51 


One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, 
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood 

So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung : 
" She is won ! we are gone ! over bank, bush, and scar ; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young 



There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they 

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee ; 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? 

Sin Walter Scott. 


Freedom calls you ! Quick, be ready, — 

Rouse ye in the name of God, — 
Onward, onward, strong and steady, — 
Dash to earth the oppressor's rod. 
Freedom calls, ye brave ! 
Rise and spurn the name of slave. 



Grasp the sword ! — its edge is keen, 
Seize the gun ! — its ball is true : 
Sweep your land from tyrant clean, — 

Haste, and scour it through and through ! 
Onward, onward ! Freedom cries, 
Rush to arms, — the tyrant flies. 


By the souls of patriots gone, 

Wake, — arise, — your fetters break, 
Kosciusko bids you on, — 
Sobieski cries awake ! 

Rise, and front the despot czar, 
Rise, and dare the unequal war. 


Freedom calls you ! Quick, be ready, — 
Think of what your sires have been, 
Onward, onward ! strong and steady, 
Drive the tyrant to his den. 

On, and let the watchword be, 
Country, home, and liberty ! 

James G. Percival. 





Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, 
The mingled notes came softened from below; 
The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young ; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school ; 
The watchdog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, — 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 


Near yonder copse where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden tiower grows wild, 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The village preachers modest mansion rose. 



A man he was to all the country dear, 

And passing rich with forty pounds a year : 

Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place. 

Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 


His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire and talked the night away ; 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 


Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all 5 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, 


To tempt his new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down, the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 


At church with meek and unaffected grace, 

His looks adorned the venerable place ; 

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 

And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. 

The service past, around the pious man, 

With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 

E'en children followed, with endearing wile, 

And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. 


His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed ; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : 
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm ; 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be, 

Sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee 

For thou art worthy, 
Thou unassuming Common-place 
Of Nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace 

Which Love makes for thee ! 


Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit and play with similes, 

Loose types of things through all degrees, 

Thoughts of thy raising ; 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame 
As is the humour of the game, 

While I am gazing. 


A nun demure, of lowly port ; 

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

[Chap. II.] TO THE DAISY. 57 


A little Cyclops, with one eye 

Staring to threaten and defy, 

That thought comes next — and instantly 

The freak is over, 
The shape will vanish, and behold ! 
A silver shield with boss of gold 
That spreads itself, some faery bold 

In fight to cover. 

I see thee glittering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star, 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; — 
May peace come never to his nest 

Who shall reprove thee ! 


Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last 

When all my reveries are past 

I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 

Sweet silent Creature ! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 

William Wordsworth. 



1. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. 

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he 
leadeth me beside the still waters. 

2. He restoreth my soul : he leadeth me in the paths 
of righteousness for his name's sake. 

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow 
of death, I will fear no evil : for thou art with me ; thy 
rod and thy staff they comfort me. 

3. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence 
of mine enemies : thou anointest my head with oil ; 
my cup runueth over. 

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the 
days of my life : and I will dwell in the house of the 
Lord forever. 


1. Like other gently nurtured Boston boys, Phillips 
began the study of law ; and, as it proceeded, doubtless 
the sirens sang to him, as to the noble youth of every 
country and time. If, musing over Coke and Black- 
stone, in the full consciousness of ample powers and of 
fortunate opportunities, he sometimes forecast the fu- 
ture, he doubtless saw himself succeeding Fisher Ames, 


and Harrison Gray Otis, and Daniel Webster, rising 
from the bar to the Legislature, from the Legislature to 
the Senate, from the Senate — who knew whither ? — 
the idol of society, the applauded orator, the brilliant 
champion of the elegant repose and the cultivated con- 
servatism of Massachusetts. 

2. The delight of social ease, the refined enjoyment 
of taste in letters and art, opulent leisure, professional 
distinction, gratified ambition — all these came and 
whispered to the young student. And it is the force 
that can tranquilly put aside such blandishments with 
a smile, and accept alienation, outlawry, ignominy, and 
apparent defeat, if need be, no less than the courage 
which grapples with poverty and outward hardship and 
climbs over them to worldly prosperity, which is the 
test of the finest manhood. Only he who fully knows 
the worth of what he renounces gains the true blessing 
of renunciation. 

3. When he first spoke at Faneuil Hall some of the 
most renowned American orators were still in their 
prime. Webster and Clay were in the Senate, Choate 
at the bar, Edward Everett upon the academic platform. 
From all these orators Phillips differed more than they 
differed from each other. Behind Webster, and Everett, 
and Clay there was always a great organized party 
or an entrenched conservatism of feeling and opinion. 
They spoke accepted views. They moved with masses 
of men, and were sure of the applause of party spirit, 


of political tradition, and of established institutions. 
Phillips stood alone. 

4. With no party behind him and appealing against 
established order and acknowledged tradition, his speech 
was necessarily a popular appeal for a strange and un- 
welcome cause, and the condition of its success was 
that it should both charm and rouse the hearer, while, 
under cover of the fascination, the orator unfolded his 
argument and urged his plea. This condition the gen- 
ius of the orator instinctively perceived, and it deter- 
mined the character of his discourse. 

5. He faced his audience with a tranquil mien and a 
beaming aspect that was never dimmed. He spoke, and 
in the measured cadence of his quiet voice there was 
intense feeling, but no declamation, no passionate ap- 
peal, no superficial and feigned emotion. It was simple 
colloquy — a gentleman conversing. Unconsciously 
and surely, the ear and heart were charmed. How was 
it done ? Ah I how did Mozart do it, how Raphael ? 
The secret of the rose's sweetness, of the bird's ecstacy, 
of the sunset's glory — that is the secret of genius and 
of eloquence. 

6. What was heard, what was seen, was the form of 
noble manhood, the courteous and self-possessed tone, 
the flow of modulated speech, sparkling with matchless 
richness of illustration, with apt illusion, and happy 
anecdote, and historic parallel, with wit and pitiless in- 
vective, with melodious pathos, with stinging satire, 


with crackling epigram and limpid humor, like the 
bright ripples that play around the sure and steady- 
prow of the resistless ship. The divine energy of his 
conviction utterly possessed him, and his 

44 Pure and eloquent blood 
Spoke in his cheek, and so distinctly wrought 
That one might almost say his body thought." 

7. Phillips cherished profound faith in the people, 
and because he cherished it he never flattered the mob, 
nor hung upon its neck, nor pandered to its passion, 
nor suffered its foaming hate or its exulting enthusiasm 
to touch the calm poise of his regnant soul. He moved 
in solitary majesty, and if from his smooth speech a 
lightning flash of satire or of scorn struck a cherished 
lie, or an honored character, or a dogma of the party 
creed, and the crowd burst into a furious tempest of 
dissent, he beat it into silence with uncompromising 
iteration. If it tried to drown his voice, he turned to 
the reporters, and over the raging tumult calmly said, 
"Howl on, I speak to 30,000,000 here." 

8. There was another power in his speech sharper 
than in the speech of any other American orator, — an 
unsparing invective. The abolition appeal was essen- 
tially iconoclastic, and the method of a reformer at 
close quarters with a mighty system of wrong cannot 
be measured by the standards of cool and polite debate. 


Phillips did not shrink from the sternest denunciation, 
or ridicule or scorn, of those who seemed to him rec- 
reant to freedom and humanity. The idols of a purely 
conventional virtue he delighted to shatter, because no 
public enemy seemed to him more deadlr than the 
American who made moral cowardice respectable. 

9. He knew that his ruthless words closed to him 
homes of friendship and hearts of sympathy. He saw 
the amazement, he heard the condemnation; but, like 
the great apostle preaching Christ, he knew only 
humanity and humanity crucified. Tongue of the 
dumb, eyes of the blind, feet of the impotent, his voice 
alone, among the voices that were everywhere heard 
and heeded, was sent by God to challenge every word, 
or look, or deed that seemed to him possibly to palliate 
oppression or to comfort the oppressor. 

10. I am not here to declare that the judgment of 
Wendell Phillips was always sound, nor his estimate of 
men always just, nor his policy always approved by the 
event. I am not here to eulogize the mortal, but the 

11. The plain house in which he lived — severely 
plain, because the welfare of the suffering and the slave 
were preferred to book, and picture, and every fair de- 
vice of art ; the house to which the north star led the 
trembling fugitive, and which the unfortunate and the 
friendless knew — the radiant figure passing swiftly 
through these streets, plain as the house from which it 

[Chap. II .J THE BROOK. 63 

came, regal with a royalty beyond that of kings — the 
ceaseless charity untold — the strong, sustaining heart 
— the sacred domestic affection that must not here be 
named — the eloquence which, like the song of Or- 
pheus, will fade from living memory into a doubtful 
tale — the surrender of ambition, the consecration of a 
life hidden with God in sympathy with man — these, 
all these, will live among your immortal traditions, 
heroic even in your heroic story. 

12. But not yours alone. As years go by, and only 
the large outlines of lofty American characters and 
careers remain, the wide republic will confess the bene- 
diction of a life like this, and gladly own that if with 
perfect faith, and hope assured, America would still 
stand and "bid the distant generations hail," the in- 
spiration of her national life must be the sublime moral 
courage, the all-embracing humanity, the spotless in- 
tegrity, the absolutely unselfish devotion of great 
powers to great public ends, which were the glory of 
Wendell Phillips. 

George William Curtis. 




I come from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sallyT" 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 



By thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges ; 

By twenty thorps, a little town 5 
And half a hundred bridges. 



I chatter over stony ways, 
In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 


With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come, and men may go ; 
But I go on for ever. 


I wind about, and in and out, 
With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling. 

[Chap. II.] THE BROOK. 


And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me as I travel, 
With many a silvery water-break 

Above the golden gravel. 


I steal by lawns and grassy plots^ 
I slide by hazel covers, 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers* 


I slip, I slide, I gloom, I g'ance, 
Among my skimming swallows 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 


I murmur, under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses, 
I linger by my shingly bars, 

I loiter round my cresses. 



And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river ; 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 

Alfbed Tennyson. 



Wasn't it pleasant, O, brother mine, 

In those old days of the lost sunshine 

Of youth — when the Saturday's chores were through, 

And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen, too, 

And we went visiting, "me and you," 

Out to Old Aunt Mary's? 

It all comes back so clear to-day ! 
Though I am as bald as you are gray — 
Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane, 
We patter along in the dust again, 
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's I 

We cross the pasture, and through the wood 
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood, 
Where the hammering " red-heads " hopped awry, 
And the buzzard " raised " in the " clearing " sky, 
And lolled and circled, as we went by 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

And then in the dust of the road again ; 
And the teams we met, and the countrymen ; 
And the long highway, with sunshine spread 
As thick as butter on country bread, 
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

Why, I see her now in the open door, 

Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er 

LProm " Afterwhiles." Copyrighted, 1898. Used by special permission 
of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co. 

[Chap. II. ] CHILD VERSE. 67 

The clapboard roof ! — And her face — ah, me ! 
Wasn't it good for a boy to see 

Out to Old Aunt Mary's? 

And, O, my brother, so far away, 
This is to tell you she waits to-day 
To welcome us : — Aunt Mary fell 
Asleep this morning, whispering, " Tell 
The boys to come ! " And all is well 

Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

James Whitcomb Riley. 

My Shadow. 

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, 
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. 
He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head ; 
And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my 

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to 

grow — 
Not at all like proper children which is always very 

slow ; 
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber 

And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of 

him at all. 


He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, 
And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. 
He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see ; 
I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks 
to me ! 

One morning very early, before the sun was up, 
I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup ; 
But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, 
Had stayed at home behind me, and was fast asleep in 

The Swing. 

How do you like to go up in a swing, 

Up in the air so blue ? 
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing 

Ever a child can do ! 

Up in the air and over the wall, 

Till I can see so wide, 
Rivers and trees and cattle and all 

Over the country side. 

Till I look down on the garden green, 
Down on the roof so brown — 

Up in the air I go flying again, 
Up in the air and down ! 

[Chap. II.] CHILD VERSE. 69 

The Lamplighter. 

My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky ; 
It's time to take the window to see Leerie going by ; 
For every night at teatime and before you take your seat, 
With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the 

Now Tom would be a driver, and Maria go to sea, 
And my papa's a banker and as rich as he can be ; 
But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I'm to do, 
O Leerie, I'll go round at night and light the lamps 
with you ! 

For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, 
And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more ; 
And Oh, before you hurry by with ladder and with light, 
O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him to-night ! 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 



Serene, I fold my hands and wait, 
Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea ; 

I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, 
For lo ! my own shall come to me. 

I stay my haste, I make delays, 
For what avails this eager pace ? 

I stand amid the eternal ways, 

And what is mine shall know my face. 

Asleep, awake, by night or day, 
The friends I seek are seeking me ; 

No wind can drive my bark astray, 
Nor change the tide of destiny. 

What matter if I stand alone ? 

I wait with joy the coming years ; 
My heart shall reap where it has sown, 

And garner up its fruit of tears. 

The waters know their own, and draw 
The brook that springs in yonder height ; 

So flows the good with equal law 
Unto the soul of pure delight. 

The stars come nightly to the sky ; 

The tidal wave unto the sea ; 
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, 

Can keep my own away from me. 

John Burroughs. 






I. < 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 

And a pinnance, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from 
far away : 

" Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty- 
three ! " 

Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : " 'Fore God I am 
no coward; 

But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of 

And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow 

We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty- 


Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : " I know you are 

no coward ; 
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. 



But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. 
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my 

Lord Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." 


So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that 

day, , 

Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer 

heaven ; 
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the 

Very carefully and slow, 
Men of Bideford in Devon, 
And we laid them on the ballast down below ; 
For we brought them all aboard, 
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not 

left to Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the 



He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to 

And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came 

in sight, 
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather 

" Shall we fight or shall we fly ? 
Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
For to fight is but to die ! 
There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set." 

[Chap. III.] THE REVENGE. 78 

And Sir Richard said again : " We be all good English 

Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the 

For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." 

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a 

hurrah, and so 
The little Pevenge ran on sheer into the heart of the 

With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick 

below ; 
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left 

were seen, 
And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane 



Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their 
decks and laugh'd, 

Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little 

Running on and on, till delay'd 

By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hun- 
dred tons, 

And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning 
tiers of guns, 

Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 

And while now the great San Philip hung above us 
like a cloud 


Whence the thunderbolt will fall 

Long and loud, 

Four galleons drew away 

From the Spanish fleet that day, 

And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard 

And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 


But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself 

and went 
Having that within her womb that had left her ill 

content ; 
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us 

hand to hand, 
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and mus- 

And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that 

shakes his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the land. 


And the sun went down, and the stars came out far 
over the summer sea, 

But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and 
the fifty-three. 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built 
galleons came, 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle- 
thunder and flame ; 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with 
her dead and her shame. 

[Chap. III.] THE BEVENGE. 75 

For some were sunk and many were shattered, and so 

could fight us no more — 
God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world 

before ? 


For he said " Fight on ! fight on ! " 

Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; 

And it chanced that, when half of the short summer 

night was gone, 
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, 
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly 

And himself he was wounded again in the side and the 

And he said " Fight on ! fight on ! " 


And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far 

over the summer sea, 
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us 

all in a ring ; 
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that 

we still could sting, 
So they watch'd what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we, 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain* 
And half of the rest of us maim'd for life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; 
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them 

stark and cold, 


And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder 

was all of it spent ; 
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side ; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
" We have fought such a fight for a day and a night 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have won great glory, my men ! 
And a day less or more 
At sea or ashore, 
We die — does it matter when ? 
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink her, split her 

in twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of 

Spain I " 

xn. i 

And the gunner said " Ay, ay," but the seaman made 

reply : 
44 We have children, we have wives. 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let 

us go ; 
We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow." 
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the 


xm. \ 

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore 
him then, 

Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard 
caught at last, 

And they praised him to his face with their courtly for- 
eign grace ; 

[Chap. III.] THE BEVENGE. 77 

But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : 

u I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man 

and true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do : 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die ! " 
And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 

xiv. )b^ 
And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant 

and true, 
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship and his English 

few ; 
Was he devil or man ? He was devil for aught they 

But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, 
And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, 
And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her 
y own ; 
When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke 

from sleep, 
{j And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, 
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, 
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earth- 
quake grew, 
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their 

masts and their flags, 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shat- 

ter'd navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went down by the island 

To be lost evermore in the main. 

Alfred Tennyson, 



There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore ; 

There is society, where none intrudes, 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar ; 

I love not man the less, but nature more, 

From these our interviews in which I steal 

From all I may be, or have been before, 

'to mingle with the universe, and feel 

What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 


Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean — roll I 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 

Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 

Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 

A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 

When for a moment like a drop of rain, 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 

Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 


The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals ; 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 

[Chap. III.] THE OCEAN. 79 

They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 


Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, — what are they ? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts ; — not so thou, 
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — - 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 


Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 

Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 

Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 

Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime — 

The image of Eternity — the throne 

Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 

The monsters of the deep are made : each zone 

Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone, 


And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sport wa3 on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if thy freshening sea 


Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear 5 

For I was, as it were, a child of thee, 

And trusted to thy billows far and near, 

And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 

Lord Byron. 


1. Ye call me chief; and ye do well to call him 
chief who for twelve long years has met upon the arena 
every shape of man or beast the broad Empire of Rome 
could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If 
there be one among you who can say that ever, in pub- 
lic fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my 
tongue, let him stand forth and say it. If there be 
three of all your company dare face me on the bloody 
sand, let them come on. 

2. A nd yet I was not always thus, — a hired 
butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men. My 
ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the 
vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My 
early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported ; 
and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the 
shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute, there was 
a friend, the son of a neighbor, to join me in the pas- 
time. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and 
partook together our rustic meal. 

3. One evening, after the sheep were folded* and we 


were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our 
cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of 
Marathon and Leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a 
little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had 
withstood a whole army. I did not then know what 
war was ; but my cheeks burned, I know not why, and 
I clasped the knees of that venerable man, until my 
mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed 
my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, and 
think no more of those old tales and savage wars. 

4. That very night the Romans landed on our coast. 
I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the 
hoof of the war horse — the bleeding body of my father 
flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling ! To- 
day I killed a man in the arena ; and, when I broke his 
helmet-clasps, behold! he was my friend! He knew 
me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died; — the same sweet 
smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adven- 
turous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the 
first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish 
triumph ! 

5. I told the praetor that the dead man had been my 
friend, generous and brave ; and I begged that I might 
bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and 
mourn over its ashes. Ay ! upon my knees, amid the 
dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, 
while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the 
holy virgins they call vestals, and the rabble s shouted 


in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see 
Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at 
sight of that piece of bleeding clay I And the praetor 
drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said, " Let 
the carrion rot ! There are no noble men but Romans." 

6. And so, fellow gladiators, must ;you, and so must 
I, die like dogs ! O Rome I Rome ! thou hast been a 
tender nurse to me. Ay ! thou hast given to that poor, 
gentle,, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher 
tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of 
flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited 
mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the 
marrow of his foe ; — to gaze into the glaring eyeballs 
of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a 
laughing girl ! And he shall pay thee back, until the 
yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest 
ooze thy life-blood lies curdled ! 

7. Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are ? The 
strength of brass is in your toughened sinews ; but to- 
morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume 
from his curly locks, shall with his lily fingers pat your 
red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood. 
Hark I hear ye yon lion roaring in his den ? 5 Tis three 
days since he has tasted flesh ; but to-morrow he shall 
break his fast upon yours, — and a dainty meal for him 
ye will be ! 

8. If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, 
waiting for the butcher's knife ! If ye are men, follow 


me I Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, 
and then do bloody work, as did your sires at old 
Thermopylae! Is Sparta dead? Is the old Grecian 
spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and 
cower like a belabored hound beneath his master's lash ? 
O comrades ! warriors ! Thracians ! if we must tight, 
let us fight for ourselves ! If we must slaughter, let us 
slaughter our oppressors ! If we must die, let it be 
under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, 
honorable battle. 

Rev, Elijah Kellogg. 



Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again t 

I hold to you the hands you first beheld, 

To show they still are free. Methinks I hear 

A spirit in your echoes answer me, 

And bid your tenant welcome home again I 


O sacred forms, how proud you look ! 
How high you lift your heads into the sky ! 
How huge you are ! how mighty and how free 
How do you look, for all your bared brows, 
More gorgeously majestical than kings 
Whose loaded coronets exhaust the mine. 



Ye are the things that tower, that shine ; whose smile 
Makes glad - — whose frown is terrible ; whose forms, 
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear 
Of awe divine ; whose subject never kneels 
In mockery, because it is jour boast 
To keep him free I 


Ye guards of liberty, 
I'm with you once again ! I call to you 
With all my voice ! I hold my hands to you 
To show they still are free. I rush to you 
As though I could embrace you ! 


The hour 
Will soon be here. Oh, when will Liberty 
Once mere be here ? Scaling yonder peak, 
I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow , 
O'er the abyss his broad-expanded wings 
Lay calm and motionless upon the air 
As if he floated there without their aid, 
By the sole act of his unlorded will, 
That buoyed him proudly up. 


I bent my bow ; yet kept he rounding still 
His airy circle, as in the delight 
Of measuring the ample range beneath 

[Chap. III.] BATTJLE HYMN. 86 

And round about ; absorbed, he heeded not 
The death that threatened him. I could not shoot. 
'Twas liberty. I turned my bow aside, 
And let him soar away. 

James Sheridan Knowles. 


Father of earth and heaven ! I call thy name ! 

Round me the smoke and shout of battle roll : 
My eyes are dazzled with the rustling flame ; 

Father, sustain an untried soldier's soul ! 

Or life or death, whatever be the goal 
That crowns or closes round this straggling hour, 

Thou knowest, if ever from my spirit stole 
One deeper prayer, 'twas that no cloud might lower 
On my young fame ! Oh, hear, God of eternal power ! 


God ! thou art merciful — the wintry storm, 

The cloud that pours the thunder from its womb, 
But show the sterner grandeur of thy form ; 

The lightnings glancing through the midnight 

To Faith's raised eye as calm, as lovely come, 
As splendors of the autumnal evening star, 

As roses shaken by the breeze's plume, 
When like cool incense comes the dewy air, 
And on the golden wave the sunset burns afar. 



God ! thou art mighty ! — at thy footstool bound. 

Lis gazing to thee Chance, and Life, and Death ; 

Nor in the Angel-circle flaming round, 

Nor in the million worlds that blaze beneath 

Is one that can withstand thy wrath's hot breath — 

Woe in thy frown — in thy smile, victory ! 

Hear my last prayer — I ask no mortal wreath ; 

Let but these eyes my rescued country see, 

Then take my spirit, All-Omnipotent, to thee. 


Now for the fight — now for the cannon-peal — 

Forward — through blood and toil, and cloud and 
Glorious the shout, the shock, the crash of steel, 
The volley's roll, the rocket's blasting spire ; 
They shake — like broken waves their squares 
retire, - — 
On, them, hussars ! — now give them rein and heel ; 

Think of the orphaned child, the murdered sire : — 
Earth cries for blood — in thunder on them wheel ! 
This hour to Europe's fate shall set the triumph seal. 

Karl Theodor Korner. 


1. To believe your own thought, to believe that 
what is true for you in your private heart is true for all 
men, — that is genius. Speak your latent conviction, 


and it shall be the universal sense ; for the inmost in 
due time becomes the outmost, and our first thought is 
rendered back to us by the trumpets of the Last Judg- 
ment. Familiar as the voice of the mind is to each, the 
highest merit we ascribe to Moses, Plato and Milton is 
that they set at naught books and traditions, and spoke 
not what men, but what they thought. 

2. A man should learn to detect and watch that 
gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within, 
more than the lustre of the firmament of bards and 
sages. Yet he dismisses without notice his thought, 
because it is his. In every work of genius we recog- 
nize our own rejected thoughts ; they come back to us 
with a certain alienated majesty. 

3. Great works of art have no more affecting lesson 
for us than this. They teach us to abide by our spon- 
taneous impression with good-humored inflexibility then 
most when the whole cry of voices is on the other side. 
Else to-morrow a stranger will say with masterly good 
sense precisely what we have thought and felt all the 
time, and we shall be forced to take with shame our 
own opinion from another. 

4. There is a time in every man's education when 
he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance ; 
that imitation is suicide ; that he must take himself for 
better for worse as his portion ; that though the wide 
universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn 
can come to him but throug-h his toil bestowed on that 


plot of ground which is given to him to till. The 
power which resides in him is new in nature, and none 
but he knows what that is which he can do, nor does he 
know until he has tried. 

5. Not for nothing one face, one character, one fact, 
makes much impression on him, and another none. 
This sculpture in the memory is not without pre- 
established harmony. The eye was placed where one 
ray should fall, that it might testify of that particular 

6. We but half express ourselves, and are ashamed 
of that divine idea which each of us represents. It may 
be safely trusted as proportionate and of good issues, 
so it be faithfully imparted, but God will not have his 
work made manifest by cowards. A man is relieved 
and gay when he has put his heart into his work and 
done his best ; but what he has said or done otherwise 
shall give him no peace. It is a deliverance which 
does not deliver. In the attempt his genius deserts 
him; no muse befriends; no invention, no hope. 

7. Trust thyself : every heart vibrates to that iron 
string. Accept the place the divine providence has 
found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the 
connection of events. Great men have always done so, 
and confided themselves childlike to the genius of their 
age, betraying their perception that the Eternal was 
stirring at their heart, working through their hands, 
predominating in all their being. 


8. And we are now men, and must accept in the 

highest mind the same transcendent destiny ; and not 

minors and invalids pinched in a corner, not cowards 

fleeing before a revolution, but guides, redeemers and 

benefactors, pious aspirants to be noble clay under 

the Almighty effort, let us advance on Chaos and the 


Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


1. Adams and Jefferson, I have said, are no more. 
As human beings, indeed, they are no more. They are 
no more, as in 1776, bold and fearless advocates of 
independence ; no more, as on subsequent periods, the 
head of the government ; no more, as we have recently 
seen them, aged and venerable objects of admiration 
and regard. They are no more. They are dead. 

2. But how little is there of the great and good 
which can die ? To their country they yet live, and live 
forever. They live in all that perpetuates the remem- 
brance of men on earth ; in the recorded proofs of their 
own great actions, in the offspring of their intellect, in 
the deep engraved lines of public gratitude, and in the 
respect and homage of mankind. They live in their 
example ; and they live, emphatically, and will live, in 
the influence which their lives and efforts, their princi- 
ples and opinions, now exercise, and will continue to 


exercise, on the affairs of men, not only in their own 
country, but throughout the civilized world. 

3. A superior and commanding human intellect, a 
truly great man, — when heaven vouchsafes so rare a 
gift, — is not a temporary flame, burning bright for 
awhile, and then expiring, giving place to returning 
darkness. It is rather a spark of fervent heat, as well 
as radiant light, with power to enkindle the common 
mass of human mind ; so that, when it glimmers in its 
own decay, and finally goes out in death, no night fol- 
lows ; but it leaves the world all light, all on fire, from 
the potent contact of its own spirit. 

4. Bacon died; but the human understanding, roused 
by the torch of his miraculous mind to a perception of 
the true philosophy and the just mode of inquiring after 
truth, has kept on its course successfully and gloriously. 
Newton died ; yet the courses of the spheres are still 
known, and they yet move on, in the orbits which he 
saw and described for them, in the infinity of space. 

5. No two men now live — perhaps it may be doubted 
whether any two men have ever lived in one age, — 
who, more than those we now commemorate, have im- 
pressed their own sentiments, in regard to politics and 
government, on mankind ; infused their own opinions 
more deeply into the opinions of others ; or given a 
more lasting direction to the current of human thought. 
Their work doth not perish with them. The tree which 
they assisted to plant will flourish, although they water 


it and protect it no longer ; for it has struck its roots 
deep ; it has sent them to the very center ; no storm, 
not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it; its 
branches spread wide ; they stretch their protecting 
arms broader and broader, and its top is destined to 
reach the heavens. 

6. We are not deceived. There is no delusion here. 
No age will come, in which the American Revolution 
will appear less than it is — one of the greatest events 
in human history. No age will come, in which in it 
will cease to be seen and felt, on either continent, that 
a mighty step, a great advance, not only in American 
affairs, but in human affairs, was made on the 4th of 
July, 1776. And no age will come, we trust, so igno- 
rant, or so unjust, as not to see and acknowledge the 
efficient agency of these we now honor, in producing 
that momentous event. 

Daniel Webster. 


Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of 

Britain, hast thou 
Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle cry ! 
Never with mightier glory than when we had reared 

thee on high, 


Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege at Luck- 
now — 

Shot through the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised 
thee anew, 

And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England 


Frail were the works that defended the hold that we 

held with our lives — 
Women and children among us — God help them, our 

children and wives ! 
Hold it we might — and for fifteen days or for twenty 

at most. 
" Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at 

his post I " 
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the 

best of the brave ; 
Cold were his brows when we kissed him — we laid 

him that night in his grave. 


" Every man die at his post I " and there hailed on our 
houses and halls 

Death from their rifle bullets, and death from their can- 
non balls, 

Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our 
slight barricade, 

Death while we stood with the musket, and death while 
we stoopt to the spade, 


Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for 

often there fell, 
Striking the hospital wall, crashing through it, their 

shot and their shell, 


Death — for their spies were among us, their marksman 

were told of our best, 
So that the brute bullet broke through the brain that 

could think for the rest j 
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would 

rain at our feet — 
Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled 

us round ; 
Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth 

of a street, 
Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace — 

and death in the ground ! 

Mine ? yes, a mine ! Countermine I down, down ! and 

creep through the hole, 
Keep the revolver in hand I You can hear him — the 

murderous mole. 
Quiet ! ah ! quiet — wait till the point of the pickaxe 

be through ! 
Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again 

than before — 
Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is 

no more ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England 




Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it 

chanced on a day, 
Soon as the blast of that underground thunder-clap 

echoed away, 
Dark through the smoke and the sulphur, like so many 

fiends in their hell — 
Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell 

upon yell — 
Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemies fell. 


What have they done? where is it? Out yonder. 

Guard the Redan ! 
Storm at the Water-gate, storm at the Bailey-gate ! 

storm, and it ran 
Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every 

Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily drowned by 

the tide — 
So many thousands that if they be bold enough, who 

shall escape? 
Kill or be killed, live or die, they shall know we are 

soldiers and men. 


Ready ! take aim at their leaders — their masses are 
gapped with our grape — 

Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave fling- 
ing forward again, 


Flying and foiled at the last by the handful they could 

not subdue ; 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England 



Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart 

and in limb, 
Strong with the strength of the race to command, to 

obey, to endure, 
Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but 

on him — 
Still, could we watch at all points ? We were every 

day fewer and fewer. 


There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper 

that passed — 
" Children and wives — if the tigers leap into the folds 

Every man die at his post — and the foe may outlive 

us at last, 
Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall 

into theirs." 


Roar upon roar — in a moment two mines, by the 
enemy sprung, 

Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor pali- 


Riflemen, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand 

be as true. 
Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank 

f usilades ; 
Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to 

which they had clung, 
Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them 

with hand grenades $ 
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England 



Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake 

Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good 

paces or more. 
Riflemen, high on the roof, hidden there from the light 

of the sun — 
One has leapt up on the breach, crying out, " Follow 

me, follow me ! " 
Mark him — he falls! then another, and him, too, and 

down goes he. 


Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but that 

the traitors had won ? 
Boardings, and raftings, and doors — an embrasure ; 

make way for the gun ! 
Now, double charge it with grape ! It is charged, and 

we fire, and they run. 
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face 

have his due. 


Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, 

faithful and few, 
Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, 

and smote them, and slew — 
That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India 



Hark ! cannonade ! fusilade ! is it true that was told 
by the scout? 

Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the 
fell mutineers? 

Surely, the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears! 

All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout ; 

Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer with conquer- 
ing cheers. 


Forth from their holes and their hidings our women 

and children come out, 
Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock's good 

Kissing the war -hardened hand of the Highlander wet 

with their tears. 
Dance to the pibroch ! saved ! we are saved 1 is it you ? 

is it you ? 
Saved by the valor of Havelock, saved by the blessing 

of Heaven ! 
" Hold it for fifteen days ! " we have held it for eighty- 
seven ! 
And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of 

England blew. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



To one who has been long in city pent, 

'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 

And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer 

Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content. 
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
And gentle tale of love and languishment ? 

Returning home at evening, with an ear 
Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, 

He mourns that day so soon has glided by: 
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
That falls through the clear ether silently. 

J. Keats. 

The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 

[Chap, in.] SONNETS. 99 

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn , 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

William Wordsworth. 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, 

And that one talent which is death to hide, 

Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 

My true account, lest he returning chide. 

Doth God exact day labor, light deny'd, 

I fondly ask ? but patience to prevent 

That murmur soon replies, God doth not need 

Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best 

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his state 

Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed, 

And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 

They also serve who only stand and wait. 

John Milton* 

How do I love thee ? Let me count the ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of every day's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise ; 


I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith ; 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath, 

Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 


Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that? 
The coward slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that I 
For a' that, and a' that , 

Our toils obscure, and a* that ; 
The rank is but the guinea-stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 


What though on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hodden gray and a' that , 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man, for a' that 1 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a 5 that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that ! 



Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a* that ; 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that s 
For a' that, and a* that, 

His riband, star, and a* that ; 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that! 


A king can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith he maunna fa* that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth? 

Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may — 

As come it will for a' that — 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth 

May bear the gree^ and a' that ; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

It's coming yet for a 9 that, 
That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a* that. 

Robert Burns. 




1. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it 
to you, trippingly on the tongue : but if you mouth it, 
as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier 
spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with 
your hand, thus ; but use all gently s for in the very 
torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your 
passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance, 
that may give it smoothness. 

2. Oh, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robus- 
tious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to 
very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for 
the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable 
dumb shows, and noise : I would have such a fellow 
whipped for o'erdoing Termagant ; it out-herods Herod : 
pray you, avoid it. 

3. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discre- 
tion be your tutor : suit the action to the word, the word 



to the action ; with this special observance, that you 
o'erstep not the modesty of nature ; for anything so 
overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, 
both at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 
'twere, the mirror up to nature ; to show virtue her own 
feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and 
body of the time, his form and pressure. 

4. Now this, overdone, or come tardy off, though it 
make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious 
grieve ; the censure of which one, must, in your allow- 
ance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. Oh, there be 
players, that I have seen play, and heard others praise, 
and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither 
having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, 
Pagan, nor man, have so strutted, and bellowed, that I 
have thought some of nature's journeymen had made men, 
and not made them well, they imitated humanity so 

William Shakespeare. 


Morning, evening, noon and night, 
" Praise God ! " sang Theocrite. 
Then to his poor trade he turned, 
Whereby the daily meal was earned. 


Hard he labored, long and well ; 
O'er his work the boy's curls fell. 
But ever, at each period, 
He stopped and sang, « Praise God ! " 


Then back again his curls he threw, 

And cheerful turned to work anew. 

Said Blaise, the listening monk, " Well done ; 

I doubt not thou art heard, my son : 

As well as if thy voice to-day 

Were praising God, the Pope's great way. 

This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome 

Praises God from Peter's dome." 


Said Theocrite, " Would God that I 

Might praise him, that great way, and die ! " 

Night passed, day shone, 

And Theocrite was gone. 

With God a day endures alway, 

A thousand years are but a day. 

God said in heaven, " Nor day nor night 

Now brings the voice of my delight." 


Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, 
Spread his wings and sank to earth; 
Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, 
Lived there, and played the craftsman well ; 


And morning, evening, noon and night, 
Praised God in place of Theocrite. 
And from a boy, to youth he grew : 
The man put off the stripling's hue : 


The man matured and fell away 
Into the season of decay : 
And ever o'er the trade he bent, 
And ever lived on earth content. 
(He did God's will ; to him, all one 
If on the earth or in the sun.) 
God said, " A praise is in mine ear ; 
There is no doubt in it, no fear : 


" So sing old worlds, and so 

New worlds that from my footstool go. 

Clearer loves sound other ways ; 

I miss my little human praise." 

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell 

The flesh disguise, remained the cell. 

'Twas Easter Day : he flew to Rome, 

And paused above Saint Peter's dome. 


In the tiring-room close by 
The great outer gallery, 
With his holy vestments dight, 
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite ; 


And all his past career 

Came back upon him clear, 

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, 

Till on his life the sickness weighed ; 


And in his cell, when death drew near, 
An angel in a dream brought cheer : 
And rising from the sickness drear, 
He grew a priest, and now stood here. 
To the East with praise he turned, 
And on his sight the angel burned. 
" I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, 
And set thee here ; I did not well. 


" Vainly I left my angel-sphere, 

Vain was thy dream of many a year. 

Thy voice's praise seemed weak : it dropped — 

Creation's chorus stopped i 

Go back and praise again 

The early way, while I remain. 

With that weak voice of our disdain, 

Take up creation's pausing strain. 

" Back to the cell and poor employ ; 
Resume the craftsman and the boy ! " 
Theocrite grew old at home ; 
A new Pope dwelt at Peter's dome. 
One vanished as the other died : 
They sought God side by side. 

Robert Browning. 



1. He who speaks honestly cares not, needs not care, 
though his words be preserved to remotest time. The 
dishonest speaker, not he only who purposely utters 
falsehoods, but he who does not purposely, and with 
sincere heart, utter Truth, and Truth alone ; who bab- 
bles he knows not what, and has clapped no bridle on 
his tongue, but lets it run racket, ejecting chatter and 
futility — is among the most indisputable malefactors 
omitted, or inserted, in the Criminal Calendar. 

2. To him that will well consider it, idle speaking is 
precisely the beginning of all Hollowness, Halfness, 
Infidelity (want of Faithfulness); it is the genial atmos- 
phere in which rank weeds of every kind attain the 
mastery over noble fruits in man's life, and utterly 
choke them out : one of the most crying maladies of 
these days, and to be testified against, and in all ways 
to the uttermost withstood. 

3. Wise, of a wisdom far beyond our shallow depth, 
was that old precept, " Watch thy tongue ; out of it are 
the issues of Life ! " Man is properly an incarnated 
word: the word that he speaks is the man himself. 
Were eyes put into our head, that we might see, or 
that we might fancy, and plausibly pretend, we had 
seen ? Was the tongue suspended there, that it might 
tell truly what we had seen, and make man the soul's 
brother of man ; or only that it might utter vain sounds. 


jargon, soul-confusing, and so divide man, as by en- 
chanting walls of Darkness, from union with man ? 

4. Thou who wearest that cunning, heaven-made 
organ, a Tongue, think well of this. Speak not, I 
passionately entreat thee, till thy thought have silently 
matured itself, till thou have other than mad and mad- 
making noises to emit : hold thy tongue till some mean- 
ing lie behind, to set it wagging. 

5. Consider the significance of Silence ; it is bound- 
less, never by meditating to be exhausted, unspeakably 
profitable to thee! Cease that chaotic hubbub, wherein 
thy own soul runs to waste, to confused suicidal dislo- 
cation and stupor ; out of Silence comes thy strength. 
" Speech is silvern, silence is golden ; speech is human, 
silence is divine." 

6. Fool ! thinkest thou that because no one stands 
near with parchment and blacklead to note thy jargon, 
it therefore dies and is harmless ? Nothing dies, noth- 
ing can die. No idlest word thou speakest but is a 
seed cast into Time, and grows through all Eternity ! 
The Recording Angel, consider it well, is no fable, but 
the truest of truths : the paper tablets thou canst burn ; 
of the " iron leaf " there is no burning. 

Thomas Carlyle. 



So goes the world ; — if wealthy, you may call 
This friend, that brother; — friends and brothers all ; 
Though you are worthless — witless — never mind it i 
You may have been a stable-boy — what then ? 
'Tis wealth, good sir, makes honorable men. 
You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it. 

But if you are poor, Heaven help you ! though your sire 

Had royal blood within him, and though you 

Possess the intellect of angels, too, 

'Tis all in vain ; — the world will ne'er inquire 

On such a score : — Why should it take the pains ? 

'Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains. 


I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever, 
Witty and wise : — he paid a man a visit, 
And no one noticed him, and no one ever 
Gave him a welcome. " Strange ! " cried I, "whence is 

He walked on this side, then on that, 

He tried to introduce a social chat ; 
Now here, now there, in vain he tried ; 
Some formally and freezingly replied, 

And some 
Said by their silence — " Better stay at home." 



A rich man burst the door ; 

As Croesus rich, I'm sure 
He could not pride himself upon his wit, 
And as for wisdom, he had none of it ; 
He had what's better ; he had wealth. 

What a confusion!— all stand up erect — 
These crowd around to ask him of his health ; 

These bow in honest duty and respect; 
And these arrange a sofa or a chair, 
And these conduct him there. 
" Allow me, sir, the honor ; " — Then a bow 
Down to the earth — Is't possible to show 
Meet gratitude for such kind condescension ? 


The poor man hung his head, 

And to himself he said, 
" This is indeed beyond my comprehension ; n 

Then looking round, 

One friendly face he found, 
And said, " Pray tell me why is wealth preferred 
To wisdom ? " — " That's a silly question, friend ! " 
Replied the other — " have you never heard, 

A man may lend his store 

Of gold or silver ore, 
Bat wisdom none can borrow, none can lend?" 




'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night — 

The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright ; 

Naught is seen in the vault on high 

But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, 

And the flood which rolls its milky hue, 

A river of light on the welkin blue. 

The moon looks down on old Cro'nest ; 

She mellows the shades on his craggy breast ; 

And seems his huge gray form to throw 

In a silver cone on the waves below. 

His sides are broken by spots of shade, 

By the walnut-bough and the cedar made, 

And through their clustering branches dark 

Glimmers and dies the fire-fly's spark, 

Like starry twinkles that momently peak 

Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack. 


The stars are on the moving stream, 

And fling, as its ripples gently flow, 
A burnished length of wavy beam 

In an eel-like, spiral line below ; 
The winds are whist, and the owl is still, 

The bat in the shelvy rock is hid. 
And naught is heard on the lonely hill 
But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill 

Of the gauze-winged katy-did, 
And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill, 


"Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings, 
Ever a note of wail and woe, 

Till the morning spreads her rosy wings, 
And earth and sky in her glances glow. 


*Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell ; — 
The wood- tick has kept the minutes well ; 
He has counted them all with click and stroke 
Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak ; 
And he has awakened the sentry Elve 

Who sleeps wiih him in the haunted tree, 
To bid him ring the hour of twelve, 

And call the Fays to their revelry; 
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell — 
'Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell. 
" Midnight comes, and all is well ! 
Hither, hither wing your way ! 
*Tis the dawn of the fairy-day I " 


They come from beds of lichen green, 
They creep from the mullein's velvet screen , 

Some on the backs of beetles fly 
From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, 

Where they swing in their cobweb hammocks 
And rocked about in the evening breeze ; 

Some from the hum-bird's downy nest — - 
They had driven him out by elfin power, 

And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, 
Had slumbered there till the charmed hour i 


Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, 

With glittering ising-stars inlaid; 
And some had opened the four-o'clock, 

And stole within its purple shade. 

And now they throng the moonlight glade. 
Above — below — on every side, 

Their little minim forms arrayed 
In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride. 

They come not now to print the lea, 

In freak and dance around the tree, 

Or at the mushroom board to sup, 

And drink the dew from the buttercup ; - — 

A scene of sorrow waits them now, 

For an Ouphe has broken his vestal vow; 

He has loved an earthly maid, 

And left for her his woodland shade ; 

He has lain upon her lip of dew, 

And sunned him in her eyes of blue, 

Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, 

Played in the ringlets of her hair, 

And, nestling on her snowy breast. 

Forgot the Lily-King's behest, — 

For this the shadowy tribes of air 

To the Elfin Court must haste away !- 
And now they stand expectant there, 

To hear the doom of the Culprit Fay. 


The throne was reared upon the grass, 
Of spice-wood and of sassafras ; 


On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell 

Hung the burnished canopy, 
And o'er it gorgeous curtains fell 

Of the tulip's crimson drapery. 
The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, 

On his brow the crown imperial shone, 
The prisoner Fay was at his feet, 

And his Peers were ranged around the throne. 
Joseph Rodman Drake. 


Lo ! the long, slender spears, bow they quiver and flash 
Where the clouds send their cavalry down! 

Rank and file by the million the rain-lancers dash 
Over mountain and river and town: 

Thick the battle-drops fall — but they drip not in blood; 

The trophy of war is the green fresh bud : 
Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain! 


The pastures lie baked, and the furrow is bare, 

The wells they yawn empty and dry; 
But a rushing of waters is heard in the air, 

And a rainbow leaps out in the sky. 
Hark ! the heavy drops pelting the sycamore leaves, 
How they wash the wide pavement, and sweep from 
the eaves ! 

Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain ! 

[Chap. IV.] THE SONG OF THE EAIN, 115 


See, the weaver throws wide his own swinging pane, 

The kind drops dance in on the floor; 
And his wife brings her flower-pots to drink the sweet 
On the step by her half-open door ; 
At the tune on the skylight, far over his head, 
Smiles their poor crippled lad on his hospital bed. 
Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain ! 


And away, far from men, where high mountains tower, 

The little green mosses rejoice, 
And the bud-heated heather nods to the shower, 

And the hill-torrents lift up their voice: 
And the pools in the hollows mimic the fight 
Of the rain, as their thousand points dart up in the 

Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain I 


And deep in the fir- wood below, near the plain, 

A single thrush pipes full and sweet, 
How days of clear shining will come after rain, 
Waving meadows, and thick growing wheat ; 
So the voice of Hope sings, at the heart of our fears, 
Of the harvest that springs from a great nation's tears : 
Oh, the rain, the plentiful rain ! 




1. Curiosity is a passion very favorable to the love 
of study, and a passion very susceptible of increase by 
cultivation. Sound travels so many feet in a second ; 
and light travels so many feet in a second. Nothing 
more probable : but you do not care how light and 
sound travel. Very likely: but make yourself care; 
get up, shake yourself well, pretend to care, make be- 
lieve to care, and very soon you will care, and care so 
much that you will sit for hours thinking about light 
and sound, and be extremely angry with any one who 
interrupts you in your pursuits ; and tolerate no other 
conversation but about light and sound; and catch 
yourself plaguing everybody to death who approaches 
you, with the discussion of these subjects. 

2. I am sure that a man ought to read as he would 
grasp a nettle: do it lightly, and you get molested; 
grasp it with all your strength, and you feel none of 
its asperities. There is nothing so horrible as languid 
study, when you sit looking at the clock, wishing the 
time was over, or that somebody would call on you and 
put ycu out of your misery. The only way to read 
with any efficacy is to read so heartily that dinner- 
time comes two hours before you expected it. 

3. To sit with your Livy before you, and hear the 
geese cackling that saved the Capitol : and to see with 
your own eyes the Carthaginian sutlers gathering up 

[Chap. IV.] ivky. 117 

the rings of the Roman knights after the battle of 
Cannae, and heaping them into bushels; and to be so 
intimately present at the actions you are reading of 
that when anybody knocks at the door it will take you 
two or three seconds to determine whether you are in 
your own study, or in the plains of Lombardy, looking 
at Hannibal's weather-beaten face, and admiring the 
splendor of his single eye. 

4. This is the only kind of study which is not tire- 
some ; and almost the only kind which is not useless : 
this is the knowledge which gets into the system, and 
which a man carries about and uses like Lis limbs, 
without perceiving that it is extraneous, weighty, or 

Sydney Smith. 



Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories 

are I 
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of 

Navarre ! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of 

Through the corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O 

pleasant land of France ! 
And thou Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of 

the waters, 


Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy murmuring 

daughters ; 
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy ; 
For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy 

walls annoy. 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance 

of war ! 
Hurrah ! hurrah I for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre I 


Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn 

of day, 
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long 

array ; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, 
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish 

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our 

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his 

And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's em- 
purpled flood, 
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; 
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate 

of war, 
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. 


The king is come to marshal us, in ail his armor dressed ; 
And he has bound a snow white plume upon his gallant 

[Chap. IV.] IVBT. 119 

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye, 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern 

and high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing 

to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout, " God save our 

Lord the King ! " 
u And if my standard bearer fall, as fall full well he 

may — 
For never I saw promise yet of such a bloody fray — 
Press where you see my white plume shine amidst the 

ranks of war, 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." 


Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, 
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring 

The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint-Andre's 

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of 

Charge for the golden lilies — upon them with the lance ! 
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears 

in rest, 
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow- 
white crest; 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a 

guiding star, 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of 



Now God be praised, the day is ours ; Mayenne hath 

turned his rein ; 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish count is 

slain ; 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Bis- 
cay gale; 
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and 

cloven mail. 
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our 

Remember Saint Bartholomew! was passed from man 

to man. 
But out spake gentle Henry — "No Frenchman is my 

Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren 

Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in 

As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of 

Navarre ? 


Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for 

France to-day; 
And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. 
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight ; 
And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet 

white — 
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, 
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false 


[Chap. IV.] IVBY. 121 

Up with it high; unfurl it wide — that all tha host 

may know 
How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought 

his church such woe. 
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest 

point of war, 
Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth meet for Henry of 



Ho ! maidens of Vienna ! ho ! matrons of Lucerne — 
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never 

shall return. 
Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, 
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor 

spearmen's souls. 
Ho ! gallant nobles of the league, look that jour arms 

be bright; 
Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch aid ward 

to-night ; 
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath 

raised the slave, 
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of 

the brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, for whom all glories are ; 
And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of 

Navarre I 

Lord Macaulay. 



I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils ; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 


Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the miiky way, 
They stretch'd in never-ending line 
Along the margin of the bay ; 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance, 


The waves beside them danced ; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee ; 

A poet could not but be gay ? 

In such a jocund company ; 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought 


For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood. 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude , 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 

William Wordsworth 



1. A cheerful man is pre-eminently a useful man. 
He knows that there is much misery, but that misery 
is not the rule of life. He sees that in every state 
people may be cheerful j the lambs skip, birds sing and 
fly joyously, puppies play, kittens are full of joy, the 
whole air is full of careering and rejoicing insects — 
that everywhere the good outbalances the bad, and that 
every evil that there is has its compensating balm. 

2. Then the brave man, as our German cousins say, 
possesses the world, whereas the melancholy man does 
not even possess his share of it. 

Exercise, or continued employment of some kind, will 
make a man cheerful j but citt'ng ct home, brooding and 
thinking, or doing little, will bring gloom. The re- 
action of this feeling is wonderful. It arises from a 
sense of duty done, and it also enables us to do our duty. 

3. Cheerful people live long in our memory. We 
remember joy more readily than sorrow, and always 
look back with tenderness on the brave and cheerful. 

We can all cultivate our tempers, and one of the 
employments of some poor mortals is to cultivate, cher- 
ish, and bring to perfection, a thoroughly bad one ; but 
we may be certain that to do so is a very grave error and 
sin, which, like all others, brings its own punishment; 
though, unfortunately, it does not punish itself only. 

4. Addison says of cheerfulness, that it lightens 


sickness, poverty, affliction; converts ignorance into 
an amiable simplicity, and renders deformity itself 
agreeable ; and be says no more tban the truth. 

5. "Give us, therefore, oh! give us" — let us cry 
with Carlyle — "the man who sings at his work! He 
will do more in the same time, — he will do it better, — 
he will persevere longer. One is scarcely sensible of 
fatigue whilst he marches to music. The very stars are 
said to make harmony as they revolve in their spheres. 

6. " Wondrous is the strength of cheerfulness, alto- 
gether past calculation its powers of endurance. Efforts, 
to be permanently useful, must be uniformly joyous, — 
a spirit all sunshine, graceful from very gladness, beau- 
tiful because bright." 

7. Such a spirit is within everybody's reach. Let 
us but get out into the light of things. The morbid 
man cries out that there is always enough wrong in the 
world to make a man miserable. Conceded ; but wrong 
is ever being righted ; there is always enough that is 
good and right to make us joyful. 

8. There is ever sunshine somewhere; and the brave 
man will go on his way rejoicing, content to look for- 
ward if under a cloud, not bating one jot of heart or 
hope if for a moment cast down: honoring his occupa- 
tion, whatever it may be; rendering even rags respect- 
able by the way he wears them ; and not only being 
happy himself, but causing the happiness of others. 

J. H. Friswell. 

[Chap. IV.] " APRIL IN THE HILLS." 125 



To-day the world is wide and fair 
With sunny fields of lucid air, 
And waters dancing everywhere ; 

The snow is almost gone ; 
The noon is builded high with light, 
And over heaven's liquid height, 
In steady fleets serene and white, 

The happy clouds go on. 


The channels run, the bare earth steams, 
And every hollow rings and gleams 
With jetting falls and dashing streams ; 

The rivers burst and fill ; 
The fields are full of little lakes, 
And when the romping wind awakes 
The water ruffles blue and shakes, 

And the pines roar on the hill. 


The crows go by, a noisy throng ; 
About the meadows all day long 
The shore-lark drops his brittle song ; 

And up the leafless tree 
The nut-hatch runs, and nods, and clings ; 
The bluebird dips with flashing wings, 
The robin flutes, the spairow sings, 

And the swallows float and flee. 



I break the spirit's cloudy bancta, 
A wanderer in enchanted lands, 
I feel the sun upon my hands ; 

And far from care and strife 
The broad earth bids me forth, I rise 
With lifted brow and upward eyes. 
I bathe my spirit in blue skies, 

And taste the springs of life 


I feel the tumult of new birth ; 
I waken with the wakening earth ; 
I match the bluebird in her mirth ; 

And wild with wind and sun, 
A treasurer of immortal days, 
I roam the glorious world with praise, 
The hillsides and the woodland ways, 

Till the earth and I are one. 

Archibald Lampman, 



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